


The Fisher King

by seikaitsukimizu



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 09:58:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 24
Words: 74,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4621056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seikaitsukimizu/pseuds/seikaitsukimizu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For years, Camelot has fought to end the magical threat living in the Perilous Lands. This latest war is being led directly by Arthur, who finds himself staring down the Fisher King's greatest weapon: the Warlock. Their exhausting stalemate is broken with the appearance of the Black Knight, a monster, and an unexpected sacrifice. </p><p>Now finding himself trapped at the court of the Fisher King,  Arthur has to face down not only his magical enemy, but the darker truths behind the war he never new existed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The battleground is almost quiet, the sounds of fighting muted and restrained. Arthur pries his helmet off, struggling to not strip his skin as the dent scrapes against his temple. Had the strike been any harder, the metal would have penetrated his skull. It’s no use to him now, more hindrance than protection. With a grunt, he removes the headdress and tosses it to the side, letting it fall among the bodies around him.

Unlike him, the men at his feet have no colors, no house or banner to display their loyalties. They’re peasants, maybe even nobles, who are fighting blindly for a false king and a cursed land. He uses the moment of respite to catch his breath and take in the field before him. The soldiers he brought with him are tired, but the exhaustion doesn’t show in their fighting. They fight for King Uther, in the honor of the Pendragon name, and Arthur’s always been good at inspiring his people. They outnumber the peasants almost three to one, they always have, yet the battle is deceptively evenly matched.

His knights are at the heart of the melee, armor covered with mud and blood, but their blades are quick to strike and aim true. Owain and Pellinore, his father’s best knights, are fighting back to back. They’re battling soldiers better armed and more skilled, though not knights in any official capacity. Arthur would bet that those are men of noble houses, come to fight more against Camelot than for the master they currently serve. Bedivere remains nearby, keeping the infantry at bay and letting the elder knights focus on the more skilled warriors.

Aredian is holding his stance on the next rise, using all his skill to interrupt the spells being cast by the battlefield sorcerers. Probably the closest thing that Camelot has to a sorcerer, he’s a famed Witchfinder. Being at war with a land of sorcerers, it was only logical that Uther summoned him to help. Arthur knows he treads the line between magic and slight of hand, but he’s survived as long as Owain and Pellinore without their formal training or being accused of consorting with magic by Uther. He’s also the man reporting back to his father, so Arthur has made sure to let the man fight his own battles, away from him.

Valiant is in a swarm of footmen, his fighting style deadly, yet with a berserker indifference that means he harms their own as well as the enemy. His shield, stylized with snakes, is his preferred weapon, and he uses it to rush multiple soldiers at once. His success at felling those he hits is almost magical, but the knights of Camelot are strictly forbidden from using magic of any sort. Valiant may be new, but he’s been vetted by Uther, and Arthur would never question his King’s judgment.  That doesn’t mean he’ll ignore his own instinct, though. The way Valiant casually struck down Ewan last week along with a sorcerer named Gilli set off warnings in Arthur’s mind. He may be a Knight of Camelot, but only by necessity. Arthur can’t trust a man who’d just as soon kill his friends with his enemies.

Myror is another man that falls under that category. Another noble knighted by Uther, Arthur’s heard the rumors that he originally came to the city as an assassin, targeting him. He doesn’t know if his father offered a better deal, or if the contract is still active. He doubts his father would allow that to happen. To knight a man who still plots to kill the Crown Prince, also the commander of this campaign? Ludicrous. The fact that his current strategy calls for Myror to remain far from Arthur’s own position on the battlefield every day is merely a judicious use of resources, no matter how many suspicious glares the man gives him.

He shakes his head as another dozen peasants finally notice their fallen comrades and charge. If he was not a proper knight, he would question his father’s insistence that to inherit the throne and come of age, he must succeed in a campaign against the forces of the Fisher King. It’s been an ongoing war for twenty years, and after three weeks he can see why it’s a worthy quest for the future King of Camelot. Today, they’re currently fighting in a valley, on the border between Camelot and the Perilous Lands. Dividing the territory is a river, small but swift, now running red with blood and grime. He’s standing on the bridge, connecting the two sides, and as he strikes out at the first soldier, he glances up at the small hill nearby.

The Fisher King has his own knights, of course. There are four, in particular, that have matched Arthur in battle. The biggest threat, though, is who the knights guard: the Warlock. The enemy. The man Uther despises just as much as the Fisher King. Like Arthur, he appears to be young, just coming of age. But while Arthur has the body of a warrior, the Warlock is skinny with wide ears and unkempt black hair, looking more like a peasant than a great warrior. Despite that, he always has a straight back and is effused with an inner strength that seems to seep into the soldiers around him. His chainmail is simple and unmarked, with no tabard or noble insignia. His steed is a unicorn as white as the clouds and with a build as powerful as Uther’s prize mares. Its horn is as firm as a sword and definitely as sharp, as Aredian found out at the beginning of the campaign.

The steed and chainmail aren’t his only defenses. In addition to his magic, the Warlock also wields a gnarled staff with a crystal on top. Aredian had cursed the weapon as a relic of the sidhe. According to the Witchfinder, it enhanced a sorcerer’s natural magic tenfold, and could lay waste to an army in the right hands. The Warlock, obviously, is not that skilled. He never battles directly, but channels his power through the staff to keep the forces of Camelot and Mercia from crossing too far into the Perilous Lands. Occasionally, the crystal flashes and a wind storm is summoned to blow both sides apart, stopping all battle. The only time he’d seen the man use spells offensively was when the sorcerer Gilli fell. Lightning actually flew from the tip of staff and struck the ground at Valiant’s feet.

The Warlock is a conundrum. Supposedly he’s the Fisher King’s greatest and most dangerous asset, yet he uses his power to end the fighting with as little damage as he can. And during some nights, when both sides have retreated and are too tired to battle or too hindered by the dead to continue, Arthur crept to the edge of the field to watch enemy movements. Instead of retreat, he’s witnessed the Warlock step off his magical beast and actually walk about the fallen, his knights beside him. Occasionally he’d stoop down, and there would be a flash of gold as the sorcerer tried to heal the wounded, be they friend or foe. If they recovered, he had them brought off the field. When they didn’t, which is happening more often as the days pass, he would shake his head and look up. His face is never uncaring and unfeeling at the men at his feet. It’s filled with agony and fear and frustration and that unanswerable question of why, why did good men die?

Arthur tries to write it off as a trick, or that it’s the sorcerer mocking him. How else could he have the same look Arthur sometimes sees in the mirror?

He pushes the question aside and stabs another soldier. They’re trying to crowd him off the bridge, something they’ve been failing to do all morning. He vowed to take this bottleneck by the end of the day and finally get a foothold—no matter how small—in the Perilous Lands. He opens his mouth to call for some support when an unnatural roar echoes through the valley, ending in an insidious hiss that sets his nerves on edge. The infantry before him back away, and the battlefield seems to freeze at the horrific sound.

Arthur risks a glance to the sky, to see if the Fisher King finally sent the dragon he’s heard so much about. When he looks back down, Aredian is pulling back, calling out. As another roar resounds, it takes a minute for the man’s shouting to reach him.

“Retreat! Retreat NOW!” He goes as far as to stab one of their footmen when he doesn’t move out of the way fast enough. Valiant and Myror break formation immediately, as do all of the knights and soldiers Bayard sent for the campaign. He scowls as they run for the hills like common cowards.

Camelot’s soldiers and his father’s knights are still holding their ground with a wary air. He swells with the pride at knowing they’re unwilling to retreat without an order from the Crown Prince. The Fisher King’s forces seem to be in a similar state, though none of them are pushing to continue the fighting. The Warlock’s personal knights have turned to him, and Arthur follows their gaze.

The Warlock, typically pale, is almost the same color as the steed he rides. His mouth moves silently as he stares eastbound, and Arthur realizes this isn’t part of the planned assault. Odd, since Uther has made it very clear all forces of magic have united under the Fisher King.

A crash and screams draw his attention, and his head snaps to the other end of the valley. The screams are from the men who were just crushed by the beasts’ massive paws. It stands almost twice as tall as the soldiers, its gigantic feline body coiled to pounce and crush another set of men.  Its claws are sharp enough to penetrate armor and its fur is yellowish-white with black spots all over. The spots merge seamlessly into the reptilian scales of the serpentine neck, ending in a narrow hood and the overlarge head of an adder. When it opens its mouth to let out another terrible sound he can see that this beast has rows of pointed teeth and enormous fangs. The creature demonstrates how effective those fangs are as it strikes at a nearby knight and tears him in half despite the man being fully armored.

It takes another second for that action to fully register, and then Arthur feels a cry tear itself from his throat; of anguish and hate, and just a touch of fear. The knight had been in Camelot red, and he recognizes the sword as Bedivere’s, passed down from his father and his father’s father. As the sound escapes him, the beast shifts to the side, revealing a rider atop where the two animal halves merge. He’s wearing black armor and bears the crest of a silver bird on his shield and tabard. He gracefully dismounts as the creature snatches up another knight, and as his feet touch the ground he lashes out with a morning star. It’s so quick that Owain doesn’t even have time to raise his sword, the spiked club crushing the top of his helmet and felling the man in less than a heartbeat.

Pellinore fares better, able to use his shield to deflect the first two blows. His luck runs out when he tries to go on the offensive, and Arthur can’t help but growl at the ruthless gutting of one of Camelot’s finest knights. When Pellinore’s body falls, the black-armored knight looks directly at him, across the field of panicked footmen and shouting nobles. Arthur can feel the spite of the gaze, and knows that this man is here for him. The others are just fodder. Arthur narrows his eyes and raises his sword, more than willing to put this foul knight in his place.

That doesn’t appear to be the plan, though. Instead of rushing the field, the dark knight turns away, towards the monster. The roar this time is twice as loud, and though many of Camelot’s forces have run, there are enough that Arthur can hear their bones get crushed as the beast vaults across the field, batting soldiers and people aside with its claws and its hooded neck. Most of them don’t get back up, he notes absently.

Arthur has a split second to debate his actions. One the one hand, he could run. He doubts he can outrun that creature, but he could regroup his forces, try to overwhelm it in numbers. Except the swath it’s currently cutting through the field makes him toss that idea aside immediately. So, running isn’t an option.

He’s also not about to toss a person at the creature in the hopes it gets distracted enough for him to get away, either. There’s no honor in that. Plus, he notes, the footmen from before the thing’s appearance have all retreated.

That just leaves fighting. He runs across the bridge, sliding a bit on the wet ground as he regains his footing almost a yard away. Settling himself, he raises his sword as the beast pauses. It sniffs at the river, then lets out a spine-shaking hiss before crossing it. One more bound and it’s before him, head reared back, fangs bared. He looks up at it and growls, twisting his fingers on the hilt of his sword.

It takes a moment to hear the hoof-beats, and the panted shouts of, “Flieh on nu moras! Flieh on nu moras! Buggering hell!” There’s a flash of white and Arthur has time to register that the Warlock is before him, his unicorn rearing up on its hind legs. He can just see the snakehead try to snap its jaws around the thin man when, eyes molten gold, the Warlock jabs his staff forward and screams, “Awendap eft wansaeliga neat!”

The result is instant, the crystal of the staff glowing white as a shimmering wall blasts outward, knocking the larger creature away. As it’s falling, though, it swings its paw, and the unicorn and rider go flying over Arthur’s head. He ducks and sees them land a dozen strides away. The unicorn rolls back to its feet unsteadily, circling once before galloping back. He turns around and involuntarily backs up. The blast, whatever it was, only sent the cat-like monster into the stream. It’s already upright and heading towards him, head down and mouth open.

This time, he just turns and runs, heading for the unicorn. Over the pounding feet he hears, “Bregdan anweald ga-gafeluc.” The horn of the white horse begins to glow blue and it charges right past Arthur. Unable to help himself, he spins on his heels to find the monster two steps behind him. Just before it reaches him the unicorn runs into its open mouth, the glowing horn tearing straight down the creature’s throat and, as the unicorn fights in the teeth clenching around it, around the head. Arthur finds he can’t move and watches as the struggles of the unicorn dies first, and then, with a low moan, the monster stops as well, shaking the ground a bit as it falls still. 

Panting, he waits a second, then two, then approaches the bodies, his sword at the ready. A monster like that, he has to make sure its dead, before it does any more harm. Before he can take another step, though, an unknown force grabs him by the chainmail and hurls him through the air. He lands with a grunt, rolling over to find himself next to the sidhe staff and, a few feet from that, the Warlock, who’s lying still.

The man is breathing shallowly, and he’s able to grind out, “R-run you p-prat,” between his chattering teeth.

Run from what, he thinks, until he hears the clanking of metal. Sitting up he sees the black knight approaching, morning star already swinging. He realizes he dropped his sword when he flew through the air, and it’s not in grabbing distance. Picking up the sidhe staff, he rolls to his feet and gets ready to defend himself, liking the heft of he makeshift weapon. If he lands a hit, its weight will do a lot more damage than the standard quarterstaff.

“Gehaeftan.”

Arthur feels himself tense at the call. He glances around as the ground slithers and tree roots burst through the surface to curl around the black knight’s ankles and legs. The knight struggles for a moment, swinging his weapon down, but the plant life continues to coil up, capturing his wrists, his arms, holding him in place.

“He told you to run, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur jumps, shifting around to face the man who just appeared beside him. He’s hooded, appearing to be the same age as Uther, but with an aura of timelessness and body far stronger than a man of his years should be.

“Who are you,” he demands, keeping the staff between them. This man has a staff as well, like a young tree, but its forked end appears more like a deer’s antler than branches.

“I am Anhora, keeper of the unicorns.” The man hasn’t taken his eyes off the knight. Arthur risks a glance back and sees the plant life fighting a losing battle. “When one falls, there is a price.”

He twists his hands around the wood. “I didn’t kill it.”

“I know that,” there’s annoyance in his voice. “However, I was not about to refuse Emrys’ wishes.”

“Emrys?”

Instead of answering, the old man steps forward and leans his own weapon towards the struggling knight. “Cume her fyrbryne.” Flames erupt from the tips of the staff, surrounding the black knight, there’s a quiet hiss, and then a dark chuckle.

“That won’t work, old keeper.”

Anhora looks at Arthur then. “It’s after you, Pendragon. I can slow it down, but no magic here can kill it.” There’s a snap, a strong war cry. The knight breaks free of the last restraints and charges.

Arthur blinks. The man beside him is suddenly before the knight, his staff intercepting the morning star. Though old, he appears to be strong enough to keep their weapons locked. “Do not let Emrys’ sacrifice be in vain, Prince.”

Hesitating only a moment, he weighs the value of words from a sorcerer against his father’s teachings. By all rights, all beings of magic should be trying to destroy him. Instead, two have now defended him, and a third, a third is going to kill an old man. All because they want him to live?

“Go,” Anhora shouts again, heaving the knight back and swinging his staff. “Scildan!” When the knight swings again, it crashes against a blue field of air, but Arthur can see the hit still affects the old man.

“I can help-“

Now the eyes, currently gold, turn towards him and he has to take a step away. “Camelot will burn if you fall here.” He grunts at another impact against the magical shield. “And I am stronger than I look. But I cannot protect us both. Leave. Now!”

Backing up a bit, he nods to the sorcerer, then turns and bolts. He slows for a minute, seeing the fallen Warlock on the ground, still breathing, but not moving. He should leave him to die, magic only destroys, and this is justice, comeuppance, for daring to violate the rules of nature.

But like Anhora, this man tried to protect him.

Cursing both his honor and the Fisher King’s apparently useless knights, he drops the staff to scoop up the unconscious man and throw him over his shoulder. There’s another war cry, and another set of words he doesn’t understand, but he doesn’t look back. Instead, he runs, runs neither towards Camelot nor over the hill. He runs straight for the forest, gripping the Warlock tightly as he dodges around trees and over bushes. “You’re an idiot,” he mutters. To himself or the Warlock, he’s not entirely sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Thanks to enkanown for the artwork.](http://enkanowen.livejournal.com/773524.html)


	2. Chapter 2

The sun’s far passed its zenith by the time Arthur stops. He lets out a grunt as the Warlock rolls off his shoulder and to the ground, but can only lean against the tree to catch his breath. He hasn’t heard any signs of pursuit, but he forces himself to slow his intake of air, panning the small clearing and straining to catch any unnatural sounds. Not that he has a sword, or the sidhe staff. He spares a small glare at the Warlock for that, but feels himself sliding down against the trunk. “You lazy sod, making me carry your arse all afternoon.” He kicks at the unconscious man’s leg, and grimaces when there’s no response. “Serves you right.”

The Warlock had been their largest obstacle in this campaign, using magic to prevent his army from encroaching into the Perilous Lands. He should be quite satisfied at this turn of events. Without their greatest magic user, the Fisher King’s armies will fall far more quickly. They’ll finally be able to advance towards the dilapidated Dark Tower and do away with the evil king.

His eyes stray to the man again. He could end this right now, without his sword. He’s helpless. He could take a large rock, a tree branch, hell, even his own hands. His neck’s small. It’d take a minute, maybe less. Valiant wouldn’t hesitate, nor would Myror or Aredian. He can feel his fist clench at the thought, and he punches the ground.

Striking an enemy when he’s helpless, like a common assassin or thief. Owaine would be ashamed of him, so would Pellinore, Bedeivere, and the rest of Camelot’s knights. They’re supposed to be paragons of virtue. It’d be one thing to strike the Warlock down if he was casting spells and laying waste to his men. But lying there in ill-fitting chainmail, like one of Gaius’ patients…

He punches the ground again, this time letting out a huff of air. “You’re giving me a headache,” he says to the man. Then, he crawls forward and shoves at the man’s arm, rolling him into his back. He didn’t think it was possible, but the man’s even paler than before, and a sweat has broken out on his brow. When he pulls his hand back, he sees blood on his gloves. “What’s this?” He leans over the body and finds the armor punctured in the shoulder, the skin torn and blood oozing. It’s just a bit smaller than his palm and appears shallow, but for some reason it hasn’t clotted properly. “Not that I care,” he says, leaning back on his haunches.

The Warlock is never in battle directly, and that’s no scrape or injury from falling. No, that wound was caused by stabbing or, more likely, a fang puncture from the bite of that snake-like creature. A creature that had aimed for him and him alone. Why had the Warlock even bothered trying to come between them? He was the enemy. His death, even at someone else’s hands, should have been applauded.

Maybe the Warlock felt it wasn’t noble to let him fall like that.

But that’s stupid. Magic users don’t believe in things like honor or fair fights. Arthur has a personal code, a set of ideals to live by. Sorcerers grow up with none of that. They’re soulless, power-hungry creatures. Not stupidly brave self-sacrificing defenders.

And now his head hurts again. He rubs his forehead and shuts his eyes, trying to press the ache from his mind.

He tries to gather his thoughts, determine his next step. He’s been running half a day along the border between Camelot and the Perilous Lands, so he could be in either at the moment. The honorable thing would be to return the Warlock to his own camp, or at least a village where he could get help. On the other hand, he has to get back to his own people, try to rally everyone after the terrifying events of the morning. There’s a third option, to stay here, hunt a meal, and settle for the night. He’s exhausted after the last few days, and he has to admit, it’s very, very tempting. It isn’t like the Warlock would object.

Before he can decide, the snap of a twig catches his ear and he jerks his head to the right. Not far off some of the bushes are moving when there’s no wind. Glancing down at the prone man, he quietly steps over him and hides behind one of the trees, bracing himself and quieting his breath. There’s a stick on the ground, not thick, but enough to give him a chance at grabbing their weapons. He holds it across his chest, gripping the wood tightly, as three—no, four, definitely four—people step into the clearing.

“Found ‘im,” one of the voices shouts.

“We can see that, Gwaine.” There’s a bustle of leaves and twigs. “He’s got a fever, barely breathing. Percival get the horses!” The sound of one of the men retreating and a hand softly slapping a face, then, “Come on, wake up.”

“Wound like that, doubt he will,” the first voice says. “Here, let’s wrap—yeah, you got him? Good. Shoulda clotted by now.”

“Alice will know what to do.” The second voice sounds worried, as if he doesn’t believe it. “I can’t believe he carried him this far.”

“I can’t believe the sod saved him. Isn’t he supposed to be a twat?”

“He’s a knight,” the only voice familiar to Arthur says, and he feels himself tense. “He understands the concepts of chivalry and honor. It wouldn’t have been right, abandoning a man that saved his life.”

Leon.

He feels his blood run warm at the compliment, then flushes, the anger rushing back as he remembers the hurt, the betrayal.

Leon had been the knight Arthur had trained with, and he had shadowed the man through most of his adolescence. When his father had sent an envoy to King Rodor for an alliance, it was Leon who pushed for Arthur to come along, to see the lands he’d one day protect. And it was Leon he faced the day he had to prove himself in battle before the King, Leon who he had to draw first blood from, or be a disgrace in his father’s eyes. That day was crystal in his mind, with Leon on his back and a cut on his cheek, blood dripping from the tip of Arthur’s sword. There had been a shining, proud look on the elder knight’s face as Arthur bested him and was named Captain of the Guard.

Then, in the last campaign against the Perilous Lands four years ago—the second of Uther’s attempts, when Arthur was just seventeen—Leon stole away in the night with his pseudo-sister, the King’s ward, Morgana. He’d appeared the next week at the Fisher King’s side, still wearing Camelot’s herald. His father was furious beyond anything Arthur had seen before. The campaign had already lasted four months, but with Leon defecting all their strategies and plans were laid bare for the enemy.

Arthur, of course, mimicked his father’s outrage as they were forced to concede the battle to the enemy. He’d kept his hurt quiet, anguished at how someone so close to him, someone he trusted like a brother, could stab him in the back. Leon was of noble blood, of a family long loyal to the Pendragons and Camelot. The abduction of Morgana and his defection was more than just a personal betrayal, it was a condemnation of Uther and his effectiveness to rule.

It condemned Arthur as well, and he had born the brunt of his father’s anger. After all, Leon was closer to no one else. If he hadn’t seen this coming, how could he ever hope to rule Camelot? He still had scars from the lashings, of the lessons burned into his mind as readily as the whip burned across his back. He knew the King’s edict, his command for this war to gain his right to ascension, was a direct result of those events.

The first voice brings him back, and he twists his hands around as it says, “If he’s so noble, why’d he abandon his charge?”

“Who said he did,” Leon says without a hint of smugness. There’s a bit of shuffling, and then he feels the tree reverberate as someone kicks the other side of it. “Prince Arthur, you can come out.”

He knows his face is red as his teeth clench, so he takes two seconds to compose himself. He’s had years of practice, of learning to mask his feelings. With his next breath, he stands up and steps around the trunk, branch at his side, face a careful blank, although he can’t help the twitch of contempt when he sees Leon standing in front of him.

Other than some mud and a set of healing slices on his right cheek, Leon looks the same as ever. In the forest light, his hair is more red than gold and curls wildly. He still wears the armor of Camelot, and the sword hilt is the same one Arthur had requested be specially forged for the man as thanks for all his training. For an instant, Arthur can see his old friend, the familiar smirk appearing on his bearded face as he looks Arthur over. It vanishes when his eyes meet Arthur’s, and he has to quash the urge to let his temper rage, to give in to the pain in his chest at what they were, and what happened.

Behind him kneeling on the ground are two more of the Fisher King’s knights. One is at the Warlock’s side, holding a bag of medicines. His hair is dark and long, the circlet upon his head doing nothing to tame the wild look. He’s not learned this knight’s name, but he’s very recognizable from the battlefield. He constantly forgoes a helmet, instead facing enemy forces with a sly grin and a hearty laugh. When not guarding the sorcerer, he’s taunting his enemies as he swings his blade or his fists, apt at both fighting styles. There’s no smile on his face now, however, merely a grim line as he finishes repacking a bandage and jar of salve. There’s fire in his gaze, and Arthur knows if it weren’t for the Warlock’s needs and the presence of the Captain, they’d be fighting this instant.

The Captain of the Guard, a man called Lancelot du Lac, is holding the Warlock against his chest, keeping him upright and brushing off some of the leaves from his clothes. He isn’t letting his attention stray from the wounded man, and Arthur has to applaud both his dedication and the loyalty the Warlock’s inspired in him. There’s a crusting of dried blood in his short hair and on part of his face, meaning the man was more in the fray today than usual. Typically, he keeps by the Warlock’s side, but occasionally he’ll face a Knight of Camelot. Though not a man of noble birth, his skill with a blade shows he’s had as much training as Arthur. Both times he’s fought the man in this past weeks it’s resulted in a draw. If he were a less scrupulous man, Arthur would offer him a bribe to join the ranks of Camelot. He’s not that dishonorable, though, and from what he’s heard of Lancelot, the man would never accept such an attempt at subversion.

With a loud rustle and breaking of branches, the last knight appears behind the others leading a set of horses. The saddles are simple, no markings of indication that the beasts are loyal to any noble house or kingdom. The man leading him is much the same, his hair shorn and his armor as non-descript as the Warlock’s. Unlike the sorcerer, this knight is tall and, unlike the others, is wearing his full plate armor. He’s heard Valiant hiss out the name Percival, rushing to meet the man in their battles. Each time, it’s been the Camelot knight who retreated, not willing to die at the stronger man’s hands. He doesn’t know the history, Valiant was silent on that point, but it’s the only time he’s seen the new knight lose his temper.

The larger man spares him a brief glance, then focuses on Lancelot and the Warlock. The man with the medicine bag’s attention appears to be on the unconscious man as well. Only Leon is looking at him, looking him over with the critical eye not of an enemy knight, but of the brother-in-arms he used to be. He frowns briefly at the healing scrapes on his cheek, but when he steps forward Arthur narrows his eyes, and the man stops in his tracks. There’s another moment of hesitation, and then Leon bows his head slightly. “It is good to see you again, Your Highness.”

There’s a cautious warmth in Leon’s tone, but Arthur’s not about to give the man an ounce of forgiveness. “You mean other than across the battlefield, where you refuse to engage me like the coward you are?” He can see the barb land by the way Leon stiffens, by the flinch he fails to hide.

After a tense pause, the knight quietly replies with, “I refuse to fight you.”

Arthur sneers. “A traitor and a coward.”

At that Leon straightens his shoulders. “No, Sire. It was a condition of joining the Fisher King.”

“You hide behind magic,” he spits out.

“Oi!” The kneeling knight is suddenly beside Leon, chest puffed out and fists clenched. “Magic saved your arse today!”

“Magic conjured that beast-“

“Enough.” Lancelot’s words are quiet but firm.

The man huffs, but after a quick glance back to the Warlock, he steps away from Arthur. Leon steps back as well, but keeps meeting Arthur’s accusing glare. He’s not flinching anymore, not that Arthur would expect any less from the former knight.

Lancelot stands, the Warlock cradled against his chest. “Gwaine, you’re the fastest rider. Bring Merlin back to castle.”

Just like that, the long-haired man breaks off from backing up Leon and moments later is on a horse. Lancelot and Percival maneuver the Warlock onto the beast and make sure the man is sitting against Gwaine’s chest. “What about His Highness?” There’s a scoff behind the title, one that has Arthur grinding his teeth, but he keeps silent, hides his reaction.

He’s their prisoner, after all. He won’t let them bait him.

“I’ll handle it.”

Gwaine opens his mouth to retort, but when the Warlock— _Merlin_ , Arthur now knows—lists to the right, he offers a terse nod and then clicks his tongue, galloping off near-recklessly through the woods.

Both Lancelot and Percival stare after him, and then there’s a silent communication between the two that ends with a subtle nod from the larger knight. Lancelot walks over and has another silent conversation with Leon, in which the other knight bows his head and, after a brief glance at Arthur, retreats to help Percival with the horses.

Arthur can’t help but glare at the man’s back before turning his attention to the Captain of the Guard. The shape of his nose and tanned skin speaks of a farmer’s heritage prior to falling into the false knighthood he now commands. He wonders if the Fisher King offered to elevate the man into the nobility in exchange for his service, to maintain his loyalty to the Warlock and magic users. Or maybe the man is under a spell. It would explain how a peasant could match Arthur in battle.

Arthur finds himself under the same scrutiny Leon gave him just minutes ago, cataloging any injuries or damage from the morning’s battle. Unlike the traitor, though, Lancelot doesn’t show concern, doesn’t step forward. Instead, he executes a near perfect bow. “Sire,” he says, not a hint of insincerity in his voice, “I thank you for taking charge of Merlin’s health this day.”

As Lancelot straightens Arthur can’t help but shift uncomfortably. “I was merely repaying a debt,” he finally settles on. “It would not have been right, leaving him to die after he…he’d saved my…life.” It still confuses him. Why did the War—Merlin save him? Why didn’t he let that monster kill him and declare victory? His father would have been devastated.

He likes to think so, at least.

“It was still a noble undertaking. Especially…”

He trails off, but Arthur can hear it. _Especially given he’s the enemy. Especially because you hate magic. Especially because you could have easily killed him._

He doesn’t like how unsettled the silent accusations make him.

Lancelot shakes his head and offers a contrite smile. “In any case, I thank you.” He nods back in the general direction Arthur came from. “Anhora has set fire to the fields, to slow down the Black Knight’s hunt for you. Unfortunately, it means there’s no path back to your camp.”

If it were anyone else, Arthur would snort and assume the words were an excuse to keep him prisoner. The part of him that distrusts magic is screaming at him that it’s a lie, he can go back and there’d be no fire or Black Knight. The soldier in him, though, and the prince, are in agreement. Lancelot’s words are honest, and he does regret that Arthur cannot return. “What do you propose, then? That you cast a spell and send me back?”

Lancelot shakes his head. “The Black Knight is after you, and Merlin’s made it very clear that he considers your safety above his own in that matter.” Arthur’s brow furrows at the admission. “We shall escort you to the court of the Fisher King,” he continues, “where you will be our guest until you can be safely returned to your camp.”

“I’m your prisoner,” Arthur says flatly.

“Guest,” Lancelot emphasizes, then draws his sword, bends to one knee, and places the blade in front of him, bowing his head. “On my life and on my honor, no harm nor imprisonment shall befall you while you remain within my custody.”

A noble statement, but Arthur shakes his head. “Your king may disagree.”

“Balinor will not defy the wishes of his son.” He raises his head. “He’s also not a king who would order a knight to rescind a vow.”

His gaze shifts to Leon, who is watching the exchange with a hint of jealousy. “You associate with oath-breakers and magic users. What good is your word and honor?”

Lancelot turns his head slightly, then shakes it. “The reasons for Leon’s actions are his own to tell.” He looks Arthur in the eye. “I will tell you that he believes he’s kept his oath, not to your father, but to you and the Pendragon name.” Arthur can’t help the scoff that escapes him. “It is also not his honor I am asking you to trust.”

Arthur meets Lancelot’s gaze. His upbringing and training are telling him not to trust this man. The problem is, a knight’s honor is everything. Lancelot is chancing having to go against his king, the man who’s given him a knighthood, maybe even power and skill, because the Warlock saved him.

What sort of man is Merlin to inspire such audacity in his leading knight?

Slowly, he reaches forward and places his hand atop Lancelot’s resting on the hilt of his sword. “I, Prince Arthur Pendragon of Camelot, accept your offer and your protection.”

Maybe it’s time to find out.


	3. Chapter 3

Unlike Gwaine and the Warlock, Lancelot sets a standard pace for their trip back to the Fisher King’s court. Not their base camp, but the actual court. It would be worrisome, except Lancelot has been nothing but deferential, including giving up his own horse so that Arthur could ride as is proper for a Crown Prince, even when a prisoner.

Not that he has much choice. In the forest, it would be easy to spur the horse onward, weave and duck and double-back until he’d lost the knights and make his own way safely back to camp. Except the smoke rising in the sky speaks of forest blaze that bars his path back, and though he’s been trying to keep to the border between the kingdoms, there are no easily recognizable landmarks. By himself he’s just as likely to stumble upon the Warlock’s camp as his own trying to avoid the fire.

There’s also the mystery of the horses, and their familiar breeding. Leon’s is the mount he stole from Camelot, but Percival’s and Lancelot’s are obviously from the same thoroughbreds that his own knights are granted. The coloring, the slope of the nose, even the eyes are as familiar as those in his own stable. Were they stolen? Leon only took one horse, but maybe there are other defectors? Are the breeders selling to both sides? Except that’s impossible. The three nobles who breed Camelot’s horses are not only loyal, they’d have to cross Camelot’s lands to reach the Fisher King.

Then there’s the knights. Lancelot, after handing over the reins to his own horse, merely joined Percival on his mount, rather than force either other knight to walk their way back. They’re at a slow enough pace it’d be possible, and in Camelot no knight would suffer the indignity of sharing a saddle. It’s a glimpse of a man who, while maybe not of nobility, embodies a lot of the virtues Arthur himself values. Lancelot is also displaying him a great deal of trust, allowing him a horse to ride, no bonds or unsheathed weapons.

He’s never been taken hostage before, but he’s seen it done. Years ago, shortly after the last campaign against the Fisher King, Mercia led an attack thinking Camelot had been weakened. Bayard had been taken captive and, though a King, was forced to walk with the swords of two knights at his back. In the end the capture had led to the current alliance of Mercia and Camelot, but even so, a King was not shown the latitude Lancelot is showing him, a mere prince.

Lancelot trusts him that much? All based on the Warlock’s—Merlin’s—actions?

What sort of man _is_ Merlin?

His head starts to hurt again, so he focuses on the forest before them, on ducking branches and avoiding bushes. They’re riding abreast of each other. Lancelot and Percival in the middle, him on the left and Leon on the right. The trip has been made in silence, and he’s not sure if it’s because they don’t know what to say to him, or in deference to his lack of engagement. In the quiet, his thoughts eventually turn back to the horses, to the leeway he’s being granted, to the knights, and back to a headache. A circle that lasts until just prior to dusk, when the forest climbs up two cliff faces and they begin following a path. Beyond and between the twin cliffs, both of which have camps of archers, the lands are flat and he sees a tall tower.

The Fisher King’s keep—the Dark Tower, he remembers—is exactly as it’s depicted on all the maps of Camelot. It’s a masonry monolith that’s survived the ages, even as the castle and towns around it have crumbled to ruin. Despite that, there’s life and people moving around normally. It’s almost like he’s visiting just another kingdom, before the flits of sparkling gold and floating objects catch his eye, and he’s reminded that he’s entering the heart of magic.

And they’re less than an hour’s ride away.

Lancelot finally glances at him. “If you’d like, I can offer you Percy’s shield.”

He frowns at the offer. “I don’t understand.”

With a nod towards the tower, Lancelot continues with, “The magic, you look uncomfortable. His shield is enchanted to protect against magical spells.”

Arthur stops his horse at that and meets Lancelot’s glance. “And would this shield protect me if one of your sorcerers decides to boil my blood? Or take my breath? Or steal my heart?” He can’t help the hostility in his tone. He can only hope it masks the fear.

“There are rules,” Leon says suddenly. “They won’t attack you unwarranted.”

Arthur scoffs. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

“No offence, Arthur,” the man continues, “but you can’t believe everything you’ve heard from your father.”

It hits far too close to home, to some of his own most recent thoughts, that he almost reaches across Lancelot’s horse to take a swing at the man. Instead, Percival brings his horse between them, blocking each other from sight.

“We can discuss this later,” Lancelot says.

“Besides, they won’t notice you.” Percival shrugs his shoulders. “Gwaine will have ridden through with Merlin. That’s all they’ll care about.”

It’s such a blatant lie that Arthur wants to call him on it. Yes, Gwaine arrived with the wounded Warlock, but he’s willing to bet the man also mentioned who’d been with Merlin when he was found, why the other knights weren’t bringing Merlin back together.

Everyone might care about the injured Warlock, but knowing court gossip, Arthur would bet everyone’s eyes would be peeled to catch the first glimpse of the Crown Prince of Camelot. The leader of the army invading their lands.

The enemy.

And the fear of what he’s asked Lancelot, of magic simply reaching in and ending him, rears its head. Uther has taught him to always face his fear, to stare it down and conquer it. Except magic. He’s never had to face magic, not directly. It’s…too much, a creature so vast and terrifying he’s always neatly tucked it into the back of his mind as a horror to conquer another day. Even fighting the Warlock on the field, he didn’t have to stare it down, except for the one lighting show after the death of the sorcerer Gilli. And even that seemed tame by comparison to his imagination.

There’s rustling on Leon’s horse, and then the man’s arm is holding out a deep green cloak, just large enough to cover his armor, and a hood to hide his face. He looks from it, to Leon, and considers throwing it to the ground and having the horse trod over it. He doesn’t want Leon’s help, no matter how insignificant.

Instead, he takes the bundle of cloth, shakes it out, and pulls it around his shoulders, flipping the hood up. He turns his face away and continues riding forward.

He can’t say thank you, it just hurts too much.

As they continue to approach, he sees that the ruins around the tower aren’t complete shambles. The outer wall has only crumbled halfway from the top, and the drawbridge is fairly stable. The moat is filled with people rather than water, though there is definitely a guard and line for the small stream that seems to exist in the center of the indentation.

What he notices most of all is not the magic, like he thought, but instead that the people don’t look settled, that the gathering is more akin to a group of refugees than a fortified base of operation. The knights all have armor, but there’s no unifying colors or heralds for any of them. A handful bearing Cenred’s colors, another set without armor but bearing the weapons of druids, even a grouping of footmen from Camelot’s lands. They all look worn down, but not rebellious or angry. In fact, despite the squalid living arrangements, he gets the sense that all the people are…relieved to be here.

Lancelot dismounts when they’re about fifty feet from the bridge, and as they get closer some people break from the clusters to greet him. One, no, two knights seem to be giving him reports, from the hushed voices Arthur can catch. A trio of children run over and tag alongside Percival, who smiles at them and makes an awkward face that has them giggling. One of noblewomen wearing Cenred’s colors comes over with a scrap of parchment and hands it silently to Leon before leaving.

He still feels stares, people looking at the cloak, trying to catch his face. He keeps his head down and peeks out of the corner of his eyes; taking it all in while trying to be inconspicuous. He spies at least three accusing glares as they reach the bridge, but no one makes a move with a weapon, no one raises a hand to cast a spell. It seems Leon is right, there are rules, and that means the people around him won’t attack. It’s a small comfort, but one he’ll take.

As they start across the bridge the people who approached scatter and he sees Lancelot’s shoulders drop just for a minute. _The pressure of command._ Arthur knows it well, and seeing that the Fisher King’s head knight is just as human as him, in at least this way, actually makes him relax a bit. A sign that they aren’t so different despite the magic.

Gwaine is waiting for them across the bridge, no longer as incensed as he was when he departed, but the frown and worry in his eyes has increased. “Took your sweet time, Lance.”

Lancelot doesn’t straighten up at the words, he merely runs a hand through his hair. “I didn’t think rushing would amount to anything but possibly panic from the people.”

“The people are worried enough.” The long-haired knight actually wrings his hands. “They put Merlin on the throne,” he says quietly.

That earns a sharp intake of breath from Lancelot. Percival shakes his head while dismounting. Leon at least looks as lost as Arthur feels. Following the larger knight’s lead, both of them dismount almost in unison, a habit of bygone years, though Leon seems to not notice how effortlessly they fall back into sync.

Clearing his throat to catch Lancelot’s attention, he nods to Gwaine. “Has something happened to the Fisher King?”

Gwaine snorts and mutters, “Of course that’s all you care about,” but it’s drowned out by Lancelot’s firm “No, nothing like that. It’s just…it’s…something the king should explain.”

With as much authority as he can, he waves towards the tower. “Then let’s meet the king.” Gwaine opens his mouth, but a sharp glare from Lancelot keeps the knight silent, and then they’re heading deeper into the keep, Percival taking the reins of the horses and heading towards an obviously makeshift stable.

Leon, Arthur notes, shifts so he’s marching a step behind and to the right of Arthur, his old position when they patrolled together. From the corner of his eye, Arthur can see the knight flinch momentarily, but the realization doesn’t stop him from continuing. And Arthur just hates that despite everything, the familiar action is actually a comfort, as if he has someone watching his back in what amounts to hostile territory.

As they pass the blacksmith’s, Arthur gets another shock when a dark familiar woman runs out and gives Lancelot a hug and kiss on the cheek. He can’t help but recognize Guinevere, Morgana’s former lady in waiting. When Leon absconded with Morgana, suspicion fell not just on Arthur, but a host of servants, including the beautiful girl, the court physician, and a half-dozen others. Guinevere professed to know nothing, that her lady had sent her home the night Leon and Morgana vanished. She had spent time in the dungeon until Leon appeared on the battlefield, at which point Uther, in his anger, ordered thirty lashes.

It would have been a death sentence.

He’d known Gwen as long as Morgana, and he believed her when she said she knew nothing. Nothing Arthur said would stay the order. By then, Arthur had had his own lashings, and was with Gaius, begging the physician to do something, anything, to save Gwen’s life. The next morning, Gwen had vanished, and her father was executed in her stead. She was branded a traitor, to be killed on sight, her absence a confession as far as Uther was concerned.

He still doesn’t know how Gaius got her out. He never got a chance to find out. The old man had taken ill and retired shortly afterwards, gaining Uther’s permission to return to his sister for his final days. Arthur had helped the man pack his things, had seen how strong he still was, and remained silent on the absence of any symptoms of sickness.

Gwen had been one of the most trusted servants in the Pendragon household, and he knew Gaius was just getting out before he too fell into disfavor with the King.

That was when Arthur started doubting some of his father’s lectures. After all, Gwen and Gaius were two of the kindest people he knew. For one to be summarily labelled a traitor and another fearful of his life, Arthur couldn’t reconcile that with the noble responsibilities Uther espoused on governing a kingdom.

Not that he said anything aloud. He was, above all else, loyal to Camelot. To doubt the King would be sacrilege.

To doubt his father, on the other hand…

“She arrived as a refugee,” Leon whispers to him. “She was told to come here if she had nowhere else to go.”

He nods. Gwen eyes him briefly, surprise in her eyes and a twitch of a smile at his appearance, but both quickly vanish at a word from Lancelot, and she backs away so they can continue. He notices another man in the forge, a black man wearing a heavy leather apron and hammering a sword into shape. Without meaning too, he tilts his head at Leon in question.

“Her brother, Elyan. He was being held captive by Cenred, but was released at Morgana’s word.”

“Morgana—her word? How?”

Leon grimaces. “She has some…sway with Cenred’s mistress.”

He hadn’t heard Cenred had a mistress. But then, Camelot and Essetir are not close. It’s rumored Essetir is unofficially allied with the Fisher King. If Morgana can get Gwen’s brother freed with just a word after she and Leon defected, it would appear the rumor is true.

“Is that why,” he can’t help but start, only to cut himself off as they reach the archway into the tower.

“Sire?”

“Nothing,” he hisses, and Leon backs down immediately. Instead, they pass through into a great hall. The masonry is sturdy and the torches lining the walls draw his attention to the ceiling, where geometric carvings and strange sigils are painted in pastel tones. There are no tapestries or pictures, but this is obviously an entry hall, a place that ages ago greeted royal processions from other kingdoms.

He hears Percival fall in behind him a moment later, and realizes that he’s surrounded by the Warlock’s knights, escorting him as a prisoner and noble lord all at once. There are fewer people here. A bald man in grey robes wielding an iron staff. An old woman with piercing eyes holding a strange white crystal in her hands. A younger woman, shorter than him, wearing a commoner’s dress but bearing a noble’s ring and conferring with obvious servants.

At the back of the hall are twin curving staircases. On the right staircase about halfway up is a man with greying shoulder-length black hair watching his approach. Though he wears chainmail as a soldier, over that is a leather tunic bearing a coat of arms depicting a dragon crest. It’s familiar, though instead of the Pendragon red and gold, the background matches the brown leather around it and the dragon is a rough bronze in color. Instead of a forked tongue, the beast seems to be breathing fire.

In addition to the sheathed sword on his waist, his left hand holds a golden trident, worn and unpolished. His gaze, when Arthur finally meets it, is not only wary, but weary. He recognizes that look, both from the mirror and from his father. It is the weight of the crown, one that he sees now, bronze with square trivets, with nary a jewel in sight.

It’s not the image he’s had of the Fisher King, for that’s who he must be seeing. Instead of a magical tyrant sacrificing his people for petty riches and filled with arrogance, it’s of a man as worn down as the tower he inhabits, of someone tired, pained, and Arthur feels a lump in his throat at the sympathy the sight of him evokes.

There’s a momentary hush over the hall, and then the Fisher King nods once. “I see, Sir Lancelot, that you have brought a guest.”

In response Lancelot places a fist over his heart and half-bows. “My Lord, may I present Arthur Pendragon, Prince of Camelot.” He straightens up and looks directly at the king. “Per Merlin’s wishes, I have brought him somewhere safe until he can be returned to his people.”

There’s another silence, this one weighted, as Lancelot’s words resound around the room.

Finally, the King offers a crooked smile. “That Merlin, always causing trouble.” He goes down the staircase and crosses the floor, stopping mere steps from Arthur. “Well then, Prince Arthur, welcome to the Perilous Lands, and the court of the Fisher King.”   

Swallowing, Arthur tilts his chin up. “I accept your welcome, and look forward to the hospitality of your court, Fisher King.”

The man chuckles. “No need for the title. Balinor is fine.” He steps closer and holds out his free hand.

Hesitating, Arthur reaches out and clasps the offered wrist. He keeps his grip firm, and finds Balinor’s just as strong. “Arthur, then, Your Highness.”

That gets him another crooked smile. “Arthur.” The smile fades. “Thank you, for taking care of my son.”

Not sure how to answer, Arthur lets go of the Fish—Balinor’s wrist and nods.

Pulling back his own hand, Balinor lets out a long sigh. “I hope,” he starts, then hesitates, and shakes his head.

Arthur can half-guess what the man was going to say, though, and simply offers, “Me too.”

Not the most auspicious beginning, but, Arthur thinks, it’s a start in understanding his enemy.


	4. Chapter 4

In short order, the hall is cleared out of the remaining people and Arthur is led higher in the tower. The homely-looking woman takes the trident from Balinor, and the king introduces her as Hunith, his wife. She holds no regal bearing, though, and from her hands Arthur would guess she’d been a servant in her past life. Like Gwen, though, he can see an inner strength that carries a quiet authority and allows her to masquerade as a queen.

Though, as he’s looking around, he has the feeling that masquerade isn’t quite the right term. A lot of his assumptions of the Fisher King, of the bastion of evil magic, are being turned on its head.

The knights are no longer flanking him, though he notices that Lancelot keeps close to him. Leon reverts back to habit, still following just a step behind. Despite that, all four seem eager to reach wherever they’re going. It’s only after they’ve traversed about half the tower height that they reach their destination, a room filled with windows, all of which are allowing the sunset in to shine upon a white throne centered in the floor, with a pointed headrest framing its inhabitant.

Which, in this case, is Merlin.

Arthur feels himself freeze at the sight of the Warlock. He’s limp in the chair, but someone has placed his hands on the armrests and tilted his head back ever so slightly, though it’s listing to the left. To the right of the throne is another old woman and, surprisingly, a familiar old man: Gaius.

At this point, he probably shouldn’t be surprised any more. Leon, Gwen…obviously, everyone in his life that’s ever left Camelot has come to join the enemies.

The question, is why.

There’s another person, a plain looking boy with a thin face and brown hair.  He’s intertwined one of his hands with Merlin’s in a comforting gesture. With the other, he’s sliding a damp cloth across the brow of the unconscious Warlock, dabbing it here and there. He doesn’t look away until Hunith approaches, resting the trident against the throne and touching his shoulder gently. The boy ducks his head, then stands and steps away.

When he catches sight of Arthur, his face darkens and he storms up to them. “You! It’s your fault!”

“Will-“ Lancelot starts, reaching out to stop the boy. Instead, the boy ducks under and pulls back a fist, ready to hit Arthur.

Though he’s ready to defend himself, it’s surprisingly Gwaine who grabs the boy’s arm and blocks his way forward. “Will,” he also says.

Glaring at him, Will growls, “It’s Pendragon’s fault the beast appeared! Merlin’s hurt because-“

“I know,” Gwaine snaps. “You think I don’t? But you hit him, you also have to hit me.” Will jerks back at that. “I didn’t stop Merlin from galloping in to save him.”

Will yanks his arm out of Gwaine’s grip. “You couldn’t have known-“

“Neither did the Prince, so back off.”

That earns the man a snarl, but in the end Will stomps off, his shoulder shoving against Arthur’s as he goes. Arthur glances after the man, then nods to Gwaine. “Thanks.”

That earns him a glare from the knight, and then Gwaine is stomping off as well, muttering.

Lancelot lets out a sigh. “You’ll have to forgive them. They’re…they’ve known Merlin a long time.” He’s looking towards the throne, where Hunith has taken over wiping the sweat away with the damp cloth and Balinor is talking quietly with Gaius and the unknown woman.

“So have you, from the sounds of things.”

Lancelot offers him a sad smile. “It wouldn’t be noble of a knight to act in such a fashion.”

Leon coughs, and Arthur recognizes it as both laughter and a hint of embarrassment. Again, the burn of familiarity conflicts with the anger at the man’s betrayal. Instead of acknowledging the moment, Arthur nods towards the chair. “So, why is Merlin on the throne? I mean, the Warlock isn’t the Fisher King, right? Or am I missing something?”

Lancelot seems uncomfortable with the question, but Balinor breaks from his conversation to grimace. “No, I took the burden of the Fisher King.”

_Burden?_ Arthur isn’t quite sure how to interpret that. There are burdens to being a ruler, sure, but he wouldn’t call the position itself a burden. “So…the throne is symbolic?”

Balinor’s face scrunches up, as if he isn’t sure how to respond, when Gaius places a hand on his arm. “If I may, Sire. The Prince is most likely unaware of the legend of the Fisher King. Not to mention, unfamiliar with the ways of magic.” He shuffles forward. “I’ll explain it to him. Why don’t you spend some time with your son.”

Relief washes over the King’s face. “Thank you, Gaius.”

The unknown woman reaches out to hold Gaius’ hand briefly, and then the familiar elder is walking towards him. “Arthur.”

“Gaius.” Unlike when he addressed Leon, he finds there’s no venom in his voice. Gaius may be a traitor too, but like Gwen, it wasn’t to betray battle plans, nor was it without just cause. Obviously, the woman is important to him, probably a healing druid of some sort, and he can understand why Gaius would prefer to spend time with her rather than under threat of execution by his father.

“Lance,” Gaius pauses and touches his arm as well, “you should spend some time with Merlin while you can. I can help Arthur get settled, and Leon can just as easily keep watch.”

Lancelot looks torn, but the familiar disapproving eyebrow raises and the knight bows his head and quietly approaches the throne.

With a tilt of his head, Gaius leads them out of room and up another set of stairs. The next floor is a corridor with a central chamber surrounded by doors. The one the physician chooses seems to be random, but it must hold some significance since Leon stiffens when they enter. There’s no canopy bed, but there’s a mattress with blankets, a wardrobe, a washing basin and even a desk with a few books on it. It’s definitely a room fit for a prince.

And that’s when Arthur realizes that it _is_ a room fit for a prince. Balinor’s Prince.

This is Merlin’s room.

He feels the hairs on the back of his neck prickle at the knowledge, but Gaius merely takes a seat at the small round table in the room. Cautiously, Arthur takes a seat across from him. There’s no third chair, so Leon stands by the door, apparently on guard, but he can tell the man is eager to hear what Gaius has to say as much as Arthur is.

Still, taking another look about, he can’t help but voice, “Isn’t there some magical alarm system? The Warlock just lets people into his room?”

This time, the eyebrow is turned on him. “What use are magical booby-traps in a castle filled with people who can disarm them?” He leans back in his seat. “Besides, Merlin would never do something so callus. His rooms are open to any who needs them.” There’s a soft smile as he speaks. “His parents insist on keeping it his, but with the war…he would rather a family have a comfortable place than stay in the room.”

Since Leon looks chastised and chagrinned at the reminder of how Merlin acts, Arthur takes Gaius at his word. “So,” he starts, resting a hand on the table as he reclines in the chair, “feeling better, Gaius?”

“Much. I believe I just needed the fresh air of a different valley.”

Arthur snorts at that. “And the company of a good woman, hmm?”

Gaius gives him a stern look. “Alice and I are friends from long ago.” He frowns momentarily. “From before the Great Purge. I was…it is good to see her again.”

Arthur swallows, because it all but confirms that she’s a witch of some sort. “I…you know you’re still welcome in Camelot.”

That earns him a slow shake of the head. “No, I’m afraid Camelot is no longer my home.”

“Because of Gwen.” He waits a beat. “Thank you, for…I’m glad to see she made it out.”

A strangled, pained noise escapes from Leon’s throat, but Gaius shrugs. “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course,” Arthur answers, glancing out the window. They’re much farther up than his own room back in Camelot, and the view is both breathtaking and a little overwhelming. The silence is friendlier this time, and finally he clears his throat. “The Fisher King.” He turns his attention back to Gaius. “My father told me of him, a tyrannical sorcerer drawing upon the land itself to keep himself immortal and fight against the justice of Camelot.”

“Uther can be…colorful, in discussing his rivals, especially when magic is involved.” Gaius glances at the table. “Long ago, decades before you were born, the Fisher King—the true Fisher King—was wounded in battle. The prosperity of the land itself was tied to his health, and even as he withered so did the land of the kingdom, and people left. However, the land can never truly die, and so, neither did the Fisher King.”

Arthur feels his brow furrow. “Is that what Balinor meant by burden? That the health of the land is now tied to him?” He recalls the forested way into the kingdom, as well as the still arid area around the tower and the near-dry moat. If it reflects the King’s health, it doesn’t speak well for Balinor.

“Yes and no.” Here, Gaius shifts in his seat, uncomfortable. “Around the time of the Great Purge, a dragonlord escaped the Five Kingdoms and tried to settle down with a woman he loved. Despite the birth of a son, Camelot’s knights heard whispers of his survival, and so he fled. Rather than live a life in hiding, he sought to stand against the Purge and your father. So, he did what no other before had done: he traversed the Perilous Lands to speak with the Fisher King.”

“Balinor,” Arthur fills in. He knows about the Great Purge of course, how it started shortly after his birth. Escaping from the Five Kingdoms, though, and that Camelot’s knights were sent after him, pointed to the idea that the man must have resided in Camelot before, and was someone Uther knew personally.

Gaius nods. “Balinor. Fate, of course, dictated how and when the Fisher King should pass away. Balinor…” Gaius shifts again, “I am not sure how he unwove Fate that day, most likely with the help of his dragon.”

The fearsome dragon, the one he and his advisors fear daily will be sent to attack his camp and wipe them out in a wave of fire from the sky. He hasn’t seen a dragon yet, but then, he’s only seen a fraction of the area around the tower. He sits up, leaning forward in the chair. “The dragon, it’s here?”

“That was part of the burden. Balinor donned the mantle of the Fisher King, but his dragon keeps the land thriving. Even though he is uninjured, the damage to the land had been too extensive.” He dips his head towards the window. “Balinor is younger than your father, yet even with the dragon’s strength returning power to the land, it has taken the toll on him.”

To Arthur’s eye, Balinor looked at least ten years older than Uther. At least that explains why the King has never been on the battlefield, just his Warlock; and why the dragon has never appeared in the skies to terrorize them. Then, he thinks of the war, of what would happen if he won. “Wait, can…will the lands go barren with no Fisher King?”

Gaius frowns at that, looking to the table and his wrinkled hands. “I’m afraid I don’t know. There used to be a prophecy, of a Once and Future King who would break the curse. But Balinor has changed the Fate of the Perilous Lands.”

Arthur falls back against in his chair. So even if he wins, if his campaign marched across the land, killed the king, the sorcerers, the dragon and took the Perilous Lands in the name of Camelot, they’d be winning nothing but a hostile land that could never be settled, never be farmed.

A victory with nothing to show for it but the blood of sorcerers and traitors. That was hardly the noble symbol he wanted to herald in his right of ascension.

Did his father know that? Did he choose this mission to prove his worth knowing, win or lose, all Arthur would have to show is blood on his hands?

The thought roils his stomach, and for a minute, he believes he’ll actually be sick.

Instead, he swallows heavily and asks instead, “So why is Merlin being on the throne important?”

Gaius shakes himself out of his own reverie at the inquiry. “Though Balinor and the dragon feed the land, the throne itself is a relic of magic. Any who sit in it are tied to the land as much as the Fisher King. If it weren’t for the powerful magic that Balinor used to change Fate, he would be trapped in that chair. Instead, it is simply a conduit.”

Leon steps forward then, a frown marring his face. “But, the throne doesn’t heal. If anything, it’s aged Balinor. How will it help Merlin?”

There’s a heavy silence in response to that, Gaius simply staring at Leon in response.

Arthur understands the shock now. “It won’t,” he announces.

Leon jerks at his pronouncement.  “But…”

“It won’t heal him. It’s just keeping him alive.” He makes sure to look Gaius in the eye. “Isn’t it.”

There’s another heavy silence, and then Gaius seems to deflate in his chair. “It’s all we can do. From the description Gwaine gave, Merlin has been bitten by a Questing Beast. Its venom is fatal. There is no cure.”

Leon takes a leaden step back, and then his head swings towards Arthur and a look of horror appears.

It hits him a minute later. The Questing Beast was after him.

Him, not Merlin.

And in that moment, he feels a flush across his body and slams his palms onto the table, startling Gaius. “And I’m to feel sorry because your magical war conjured a creature that bit the wrong man?!”

“Sire,” Gaius seems surprised by the outburst, sounds confused.

Arthur isn’t having it. He stands abruptly, the chair crashing to the floor at the action. “That… _thing_ was after me! And it’s obviously a magical beast! You pretend to care about me, my wellbeing, but _magic_ obviously summoned it to kill me! This was all a plot—“ He turns abruptly, glaring at Leon. “This was all to get me here so you could—so you can—“

“Arthur,” Leon steps back, his hands up. “I swear-“

“Says the _traitor-_ “

“Enough!” Gaius says loudly. Arthur swings his attention back, but finds Gaius’ glare matching his own. “We did not summon the Questing Beast, Arthur.”

“You’re surrounded by sorcerers-“

“For the gods’ sake, Arthur. We’re not at war with you!”

“Hah!” Arthur waves to the window. “The battlefield-“

“ _We_ didn’t start this war,” Gaius shoots back.

“Everyone knows all magic is out to destroy Camelot-“

“Then why are you alive?” Gaius’ question shuts him up. “You’re surrounded by sorcerers, Arthur. Any one of them could end your life.”

Grudgingly, he says, “They’re waiting for the right time. Midnight, or a full moon, or-“ At Gaius’ disapproving glare, he feels himself back down. “Then explain it, Gaius.” He plants his palms on the table and leans forward. “Why should I care that the Warlock I’ve spent weeks fighting is dying at the hands of a magic creature he himself probably summoned?”

Gaius leans on the table as well, but only long enough to push himself back into his seat. “Uther started this war.”

“The Fisher King-“

“Escaped Camelot because of the Great Purge, and created a place for refugees of Uther’s rage.” He lets out a huff of breath. “Balinor fights to keep Camelot’s forces from slaughtering everyone here, nothing more. Name me one time the Perilous Lands have started a battle.”

“You’ve been there for the beheadings, the sorcerers trying to kill my father-“

“And what makes you think all sorcerers are aligned with Balinor?” He’s sitting straight-backed in his seat. “Arthur, Balinor is biding time until Uther stops his war on magic, or dies. All of magic is not united against Camelot.”

That causes Arthur to pause, to shift his stare to the window and think back, to slot that revelation into his world view. Uther has always insisted magic is united against them, but if Gaius is telling him the truth—and the man has always been unflinchingly honest—that means there are factions of magic. And he remembers the battlefield, of Merlin’s lightning, of that moment from the campaign previously when a windstorm was used to keep Camelot’s knights from approaching the battlefield. Never has the magic been used offensively, never have they simply thrown fireballs or melted the skin from their bones or ensorcelled them into laying down their arms to be easily slaughtered.

Unlike the sorcerers who infiltrate the castle to make attempts on his life.

Which means the surprised look from the Warlock this morning at the appearance of the Questing Beast was genuine.

Which means there’s only a faction of magic that wants him and Camelot destroyed.

And Merlin, Balinor, the ones they’ve been fighting against…don’t.

Slowly, he sits himself back down.

The Fisher King doesn’t want him dead.

The Warlock risked his life to save him.

“I…” He licks his lips.

Leon hesitates, then steps forward, kneeling beside the table. “I said a condition of being a knight was to not be forced to fight you. It was not cowardice. It’s because I still believe in you, Sire.”

Arthur can’t respond. He wants to, he honestly does have another scathing remark ready to hurt the man who abandoned him, but he finds he can’t make himself say it.

Taking the silence as a window, Leon reaches out to lay a hand on top of Arthur’s. “I left with Morgana because…Arthur, I recognized the signs, from before the Purge. Morgana was coming into magic. And…I tried to help.”

Gaius nods. “I had Leon taking draughts to Morgana, to help her sleep.”

Arthur remembered. There had been rumors of a tryst between Leon and Morgana because of those draughts, but the nightmares she always awoke to dissuaded Uther from believing any of them. Arthur too.

“Her dreams were becoming worse, her power was growing. She set fire to her drapes one night.”

He remembered that too, being awoken by the bells and Uther spitting curses about sorcerers trying to kill his ward. He found himself turning to face Leon. “It was a sorcerer.”

Leon nods slowly. “It was. Morgana.”

He licks his lips again. “You took her…”

Leon ducks his head. “Gaius told me he had someone in the lands of the Fisher King, Alice. That she’d be able to help her. Except Uther had put her under a strict guard, and with your Uncle present, there was no way to sneak her out.”

Agravaine, his mother’s brother, had come to live with them during the last campaign, to run Camelot while he and Uther were on the front lines. His Uncle had left briefly, but had moved back in soon enough and became one of Uther’s closest advisors, especially in regards to the war against the Perilous Lands.

Did Agravaine know, then, that Arthur was leading a war with no victory?

Leon continues after a minute. “I was back from the battlefront to make a report to Agravaine, and Morgana…she was half-mad, visions of her own death haunting her. Gwen was trying to keep her from leaping from the battlements. As a knight, I could move about the castle unquestioned, and the rumors of me and Morgana would mean the servants and nobles would look the other way. I…Arthur, I got her out to get her help.” The hand over his squeezed briefly. “I knew you would hate me, but Arthur, I knew you’d want me to do anything to protect Morgana.”

Arthur stares at him another minute, then looks over to Gaius. The old man nods, a simple confirmation of Leon’s testimony.

It’s all…too much. Abruptly, he says, “Get out.”

Leon recoils as if slapped, and a look of desperation appears. “Sire-“

“Both of you. Get out.”

Leon opens his mouth, but a touch from Gaius has him quieting. Still looking hurt, he stands and backs to the door. “I’ll…there’ll be a guard outside, if you need anything,” he finally says before leaving.

Gaius stops at the open door. He eyes Arthur, then says softly, “Magic isn’t the enemy. Balinor, Merlin, I…we’re not your enemy.” When Arthur doesn’t respond, he leaves with a soft shuffle and shuts the door behind him.

For a minute, Arthur does nothing but stare at the wall.

Then, standing slowly, he stumbles to the window and looks out across the land.

He grips the windowsill and stares at the stars coming out in the darkening sky, the glow from the burning forest a reminder of the war he’s leading.

Behind him, the room of the Warlock reminds him of his doubts.

And between the reminders, he stands, uncertain as to his next steps.


	5. Chapter 5

The shadows in the chamber are flickering, even though the sun set at least an hour ago. The forest fire still burns bright, but it doesn’t move any closer, it doesn’t spread at all. Now that it’s dark out he can see the flames licking a translucent blue shield, keeping it from heading towards the castle. He can’t help but wonder if the sorcerers are keeping the entire fire in check, or letting it burn back towards the valley to engulf his own war camp.

There’s a part of him that wouldn’t be surprised, the part that in his mind sounds like Uther and hisses _sorcerer_ and _heathen_ and _defiler_ at every person he’s seen in this land. It would end the war swiftly, and with Arthur trapped here, Uther would go into mourning, and in his grief he would go mad or siege the Perilous Lands himself.

Or maybe he’s the one going mad, trying to ignore what he’s learned his entire life. There’s precedent. It’s happened before in his bloodline.

_Thinking this way leads to madness_. His head has been hurting a lot lately. He’d blame it on the witches and such around the tower, except he knows it’s because of the disconnect in his mind. Uther’s teachings versus his own thoughts. And now with Leon’s story and Gaius’ explanation…

_Lies,_ Uther’s voice spits.

The sorcerers’ stories, or Uther’s? That’s the question.

The door opening breaks his reverie. He scowls, ready to shout at Leon if he’s coming to speak with him, only to find the giant knight, Percival, entering bearing a tray with food and a wineskin at his hip. His smile doesn’t meet his eyes, though he’s obviously trying for Arthur’s sake.

He’s no longer wearing the plate armor, and is instead in plainclothes, some brown breeches and a white shirt untied at the neck in deference to the heat caused by the fire. Without his helmet the shorn hair makes his ears stand out a little, and though Arthur recognizes the calluses of a swordsman, the scars and his muscles indicate he may have been someone who worked with stone, perhaps a mason’s apprentice. A noble, if common labor.

Yet another peasant dedicated to fighting with Merlin, to fighting for Balinor.

The food on the tray isn’t much. Some bread, maybe a day old, a cooked rabbit, and a small knob of cheese. He startles when Percival tears off a tiny piece of each, popping them in his mouth. For a moment, Arthur wonders if he’s to share this meal with the knight, but when the man takes no more he realizes Percival volunteered himself as a food taster, to prove it wasn’t poisoned.

He bows his head in acknowledgement, and admits, “I didn’t think it would be. All the trouble to get me here just for some poison? A little ridiculous.”

The shrug he offers is more like a heave of his shoulders. “Just in case someone cast a spell on the way up.”

That, Arthur hadn’t thought of, simply because he didn’t know magic _could_ do that. “You think someone would?”

Percival shrugs again before taking a sip from the wineskin and setting it on the table. Arthur, when he picks it up, finds it’s a thin wine, nowhere near the quality of Camelot’s provinces, and he grimaces a little at the taste. “Not the best year.”

“It has to be made by magic. We don’t actually have any stored here.”

He almost—almost—spits out the morsel of meat and throws the vessel across the room. Instead, he feels himself tense all over as he forces himself to swallow the rabbit and try not to let his hand shake as he nudges the liquid away from him. Percival’s brow furrows in a way that makes him look insulted and amused at the same time, but he doesn’t say anything. “You’re welcome to it, then,” he finally offers. The knight shrugs again, as if that’s his usual way of responding to any comment. His eyes turn to the window, and Arthur follows his gaze. “It’s been burning a while…”

“Anhora,” Percival mutters after Arthur’s taken a few more bites, “is attempting to kill the Black Knight while keeping him from coming here.”

He has to think at that. “The unicorn guy, right? He told me to run. That the Black Knight…isn’t he one of yours?” That earns him a scowl, which on the man’s face is actually a bit frightening, but Arthur doesn’t let it get to him. He’s seen scarier faces from his father. “It won’t, uh, the fire won’t burn back, destroy my men?”

“No.” The answer is firm and sure. “The field keeping it contained seems to only encompass the battlefield and some of the forest.”

That relieves some of Arthur’s worry right there. “So you, you’re magical? Helped set up the shield?”

The man looks surprised and blinks at him. “No. I have no magic. I’m just a knight.”

“But you knew-“

“Balinor received the news while all of us were discussing Mer-” his breath hitches, “Merlin.”

Another swallow, and Arthur pushes what’s left of the food away. Percival doesn’t move, doesn’t seem to do anything but stare at the table. Finally, he has to ask, “Then why are you here? Why fight for Balinor?”

The man remains silent. For a minute Arthur wonders if the man heard him or not, before the knight’s shoulders straighten and he looks up, not to Arthur, but over his shoulder. “In the last campaign of Camelot against the Fisher King, the army, Camelot’s army, cut through a corner of Essetir.”

Arthur remembers. It was in the early days of the war, and Uther took a hundred men and a handful of knights to try and fence in the enemy. They were literally on the border, and though their battle never crossed over, he’d spotted scouts of Cenred’s nearby, observing the battle. After two days Uther and the knights had rode back with less than a dozen footman trailing after them. He’d found out that they’d made it a day into their journey when Cenred’s forces had attacked. Not to kill, just to maim. A message to not use his territory in their little war.

It’s why, this time around, Uther had been convinced that Cenred was an ally of the Fisher King.

“It was a failed endeavor,” he finally responds. “I was on the front lines. My father led that attack.” Hubris, he’d decided afterward, and arrogance, at thinking he’d outwitted his enemy and that Cenred wouldn’t know.

Percival grimaces, one of his hands grabbing and squeezing the neck of the wineskin. “On their way they crossed near a village. So near that it couldn’t help but be noticed.” His gaze turned hard. “We didn’t know they were Camelot’s forces, assumed they were just another of Lord Cenred’s men on patrol.”

An ugly feeling begins to fester in Arthur’s gut. “But they rode past, right?”

“There was talk in the village,” he continues, apparently not hearing Arthur’s question. “It was unusual, not to even check in, maybe get some supplies. My uncle thought the tabards were off, mumbled about a bad feeling with the war so close.”

He went silent again. Arthur wished he’d never touched the food now. In a moment, he would probably regret eating anything in the last day. Finally, he prompted, “The next day?”

A lengthy pause follows the question, and then, “I went to the field. I…was sent to the fields. With some other lads. Sightings of wolves, my uncle said. He said, ‘big man like you they’ll cut an’ run.’” His breathing became heavier. “‘Be a good boy, Percy, chase ‘em till sunset,’ he said.” Arthur can see his knuckles turning white, and that’s all the warning he has before the wineskin is hurled over his head into the wall, spilling everywhere.

Arthur is on his feet, wishing for his sword when Percival’s fist slams down on the table once, twice, and then he bows over it, his breathing hitched. He keeps standing, tensed and ready to fight. The room is silent save for trickle of the wine and the heaving breaths of the knight. He stays that way for minutes, five, then ten by his count. The dancing shadows on the wall flicker, and for a moment he swears he can see Percival’s shadow crying.

Hesitant to disturb him but having to know, he takes a step back and whispers, “Your village was destroyed.”

A shudder runs through his body, but Percival doesn’t rise. Instead, voice thick, he says, “It wasn’t even burning. It looked fine, perfectly fine. Just quiet. Very quiet.” Another shuddering breath. “And then the bodies. So many bodies. Almost everyone…”

Arthur clenches his fist instinctively. Only one of two things had happened. Either Cenred had gone in assuming the villagers had helped Uther’s men. Or his father…

“Who?”

Another moment of silence. “We found a knight, finally. Dead, a lucky blow with an adze.” His head tilts up and he glares at Arthur with wet eyes. “He was wearing Camelot red!”

He knows his horror is plainly on his face, knows that his fist trembles, and Arthur wonders, for a moment, if maybe all of this was a ruse. If maybe Percival had actually poisoned his food, and even if not he was here for revenge. Not for Balinor, not for the Warlock, for him. To make him pay for his father’s misdeeds.

Slaughtering a village in war is one thing.

But to slaughter noncombatants…

“He thought you’d warned Cenred.”

With a sweep of his arm the platter of food is dashed from the table, clanging on the ground. “He slaughtered my home! My parents, my sister. She was twelve. _Twelve!_ ”

Percival is crying now, despite the anger, and Arthur swallows. “I’m sorry.”

The knight leaps at him, trapping him against the wall. “ _Sorry?!_ Is that supposed to bring them _back?! You murdered my family!”_

Arthur shuts his eyes, not out of disrespect, but shame. He could see the reasoning, on one level, but he’d never go in and kill villagers, especially of a kingdom he’d been caught trespassing in. It was a wonder Cenred _wasn’t_ at war with Camelot.

Of course, he doesn’t have to waste the resources. The Fisher King is doing it for him.

The trembling, tight grip on his chainmail shakes him once, then shoves him back again and lets go. He hears footsteps, and when he opens his eyes Percival is sitting on the edge of the bed, stooped over with his face in his hands. He isn’t weeping or taking heaving breaths, just sitting, quietly shaking.

Arthur looks down at his hands. Uther had done this, and hadn’t said anything upon his return to camp. That…that did not sit right with Arthur. There are things you do in times of war, and slaughtering the innocent isn’t it. They were Cenred’s people, unaligned with the Perilous Lands and Camelot. Uther was lucky Cenred just wanted to send a message. He could have easily tried to kill Uther instead. And Uther’s gratitude was the extermination of one of his villages.

Unless it’s all a lie, designed to make him sympathetic. Piled on with Gaius and Leon’s stories earlier, this could be their plan, to turn him against Camelot. It would be their greatest victory.

Except he remembers the satisfied rage in his father’s eye when he’d returned. Rage made sense at the time, but satisfaction? Not so much. Then came Leon’s betrayal and he’d put it out of his mind. Now, though, now that look makes more sense. His father’s sense of justice. He’s seen it before, when villages would harbor a magic user.

He’s seen it before at the Druid camps as well.

“We had nowhere to go,” Percival says suddenly, muffled by his hands, “A dozen of us, mostly kids, didn’t know what to do. I,” he sits up then, resting his palms on his knees, “I wanted revenge. We were heading to the next town when Lancelot found us. Lancelot listened, and he invited us here. To the tower.” With the back of one hand he wipes his right eye. “I wanted to fight. I walked up to Balinor and said I wanted a sword to kill you. All of you. I wanted Camelot to burn.”

Arthur rests against the wall. He can’t help but point out, “I’m here now, defenseless. You have your opportunity.”

There’s a shake of his head. “No. Leon…Leon found me, a day or two after he’d arrived. I told him what happened, didn’t know he was…was one of you at the time. He was vehement, that you’d never condone, that you’d never do that.”

“But he said my father would,” Arthur finishes.

“Your father did,” Percival accuses. “When I found out who he was…  There were times in practice I nearly killed him. I was so…so angry.” He snorts disgustedly. “I still am.”

“So why rescue me? Why let me live?”

“Leon believes in you. And Lancelot, for some reason.” He rubs his hair and looks to the floor. “And I’ve seen you fight, watched you this campaign. You…some of your knights, yes, but you…you’re not like that. Two weeks ago, when the wounded returned, even though you’d seen them healed by magic, you didn’t kill them. You sent them home.  Even though your father…”

His father would’ve had them executed.

“I fight for Balinor and Merlin and Lancelot because they’re good people. And...and I don’t want Camelot to burn. I don’t want anyone to suffer…”  He takes a fortifying breath. “I still want Uther dead. But I don’t…I don’t…killing you won’t bring them back. And no one should know the feeling of outliving their family.”

Arthur swallows. As the knight stands, he says quietly, “That’s…more than I deserve. I’m not sure I’d be as forgiving, if I were in your position.”

Percival meets his eye, offers him a weak smile, and shrugs. He walks to the door, opens it, and pauses just long enough to say, “Goodnight, Your Highness.”

And then Arthur’s alone again, only the glow of the forest fire and flickering shadows for company.


	6. Chapter 6

No one comes in to clean up the mess in the chamber. No one disturbs him or tries to enter in the middle of the night. He eventually lies down on top of the bed, not bothering to undress or pull back the covers. He stares at the door, half convinced someone will enter to slit his throat. The bed has a mattress that’s impossibly comfortable and between Percival’s words, Gaius’ story, and being trapped in the enemy’s tower, he’s certain sleep will be impossible. He must, at some point, though, because he closes his eyes one moment only to awaken the next and find it’s at least an hour past sunrise and there’s a knock on the door.

When he sits up, the wine has dried into the stone, and there’s still bits of meat and bread scattered about. Both chairs of the table are where they left them, knocked over on their back. With all the ruckus they caused, he’s surprised no guards ran in to see what was going on. Unless Percival was supposed to be his guard, and they figured that would be enough.

There’s another knock, and then a hesitant yet demanding “Sire? Prince Arthur,” that’s familiar, so he goes to the door and opens it to discover Gwen, startled at the sudden door opening, and Lancelot. They’re both smiling, until Gwen catches the serving platter on the ground and asks, “Sire? What happened?”

Lancelot quickly nudges her back a little and looks in, his brow furrowing as he takes in the room. Regret and shame immediately overcome his features as he looks Arthur in the eye and says, “There was an attack? I’ll investigate-“

“No,” he holds up his hands, palms out, “No attack. I…” He debates, then remembers Lancelot already knows. “Sir Percival and I…talked.”

“It looks more like you fought,” Gwen fires back, then her eyes widen and she bows. “That is, Sire, the room just looks a little more disturbed than…meaning that I wasn’t expecting-“

Lancelot pastes a smile that Arthur can tell is fake and laughs lightly. “I’m sure they just drank a little. See?” He’s in the room and picking up the wineskin. “Empty. Probably just got a little rough arm wrestling.”

The way Gwen’s eyes narrow is familiar to Arthur. It’s her determined ‘I will get the truth out of you later only because I can’t this instant.’ He’d witnessed firsthand Gwen’s ability with pranking servants and slovenly chambermaids. She has a will of steel, and she’d needed it, being Morgana’s lady. “Oh, of course. How silly of me to think otherwise.”

Arthur can’t help the smirk as Lancelot realizes his deception’s been spotted and his neck shrinks under Gwen’s sharp gaze. He gives it a moment, then reaches a hand forward touching her shoulder. Her attention immediately shifts to him and his smirk becomes a smile, getting to look her over up close. Her hands are filthier now, undoubtedly from her time in the forge, and there’s a bit of soot in her hair. She’s dressed in finer clothes than normal, though, and when she meets his eyes her smile is genuine, welcoming. “It’s good to see you,” he says softly. “I was…I worried.”

The smile dims and she reaches up to clasp her hand. “It’s good to see you too, Arthur.”

“I didn’t, I told him-“

“I know you tried. Thank you, for standing up for me.”

“It shouldn’t have been needed,” he mutters.

She squeezes his hand in response. “It’s done. I got away safely.” He notices that she doesn’t tell him how. “Their forge isn’t that of Camelot’s but it’s good, continuing my father’s work.” She brightens again. “And Elyan’s back! Isn’t it wonderful? Lord Balinor even offered him a knighthood for all his hard work with the armory—“ She cuts herself off, ducking her head. “I mean…not that I want our weapons used against Camelot, but there’s a war and-“

This time, he squeezes her hand and she falls silent. From the corner of his eye he can see Lancelot approach quietly, not daring to interrupt, but obviously wanting to. “I’m glad you found a new home.”

She nods, and after a moment snatches her hand back. “I’m sorry, My Lord, I shouldn’t have-“

“Arthur.” He clears his throat. “I mean, you’re not a subject of Camelot anymore. So it’s fine, if you just want to call me-“

“It’s disrespectful-“

“Please,” he says quietly. “Just…let me be Arthur during my stay?” After yesterday he’s not exactly thrilled with being Uther’s son, being associated with Camelot’s aggression. Here, at least, is one person who’s known him all his life, knows him not as the enemy or as a ruthless murderer or any of that. Someone who occasionally played with him and Morgana as children, and could see past his heritage to just the child.

Just Arthur, if only for a little while.

She bites her lip, then nods and says, “All right, Arthur.” She looks up again, and the smile she gives him is friendly and sad, a glint in her gaze that says she knows where he’s coming from.

She’s always been brilliant. It’s one reason he had a boyhood infatuation with her for the longest time.

Lancelot finally clears his throat, and they step away from each other. Gwen gives the head knight a nod and steps into the room. “Right, I’ll get this cleaned up and join you shortly.”

“You don’t have to,” Lancelot says.

Her smile is a little more broken. “I want to. For when he…he’ll want a clean room, when he wakes up.” And then she’s turned away from them, kneeling on the floor to gather the remnants of last night’s dinner.

Lancelot stares at her back for a moment, before nodding towards the door and leading Arthur out and towards the stairs. Arthur waits until they’re a few steps down before saying, “She knows he’s not…that the chair-“

“She knows,” Lancelot’s voice is tight, pained. “She hopes. She hopes, so we hope, so that we don’t acknowledge what we all know.” He shuts his eyes and stops, leaning on the stone wall.

Arthur, in deference, stops a step down. “He’s more than just your prince,” he says when Lancelot opens his eyes again after a minute.

“He’s a friend. He makes friends. He…stations don’t matter to him.”

A trend he’s beginning to see the longer he’s at the Fisher King’s court. He wonders if Balinor started that, or Merlin. And then he wonders why he cares. A court like this is a sign of weakness, degradation of the lord’s power. Remembering the crumbling outer walls, he thinks maybe they were always like this. After all, the Fisher King is reflected in his land, isn’t he? Maybe it’s not just his health, but his attitude as well.

Will he be affected too, now that he’s here? It should be a worrying thought. The fact that it isn’t makes him wonder if he’s ensorcelled already.

“He sounds like an idiot.”

_Maybe not so ensorcelled just yet…_

Lancelot, frowns at him a moment, then chuckles. “Maybe. He saved you.”

He tries to be affronted, but instead snorts amusedly. They continue down another few steps before he says, “So, you and Gwen…”

There’s a slight flush to his face. “It takes time, to court such a woman.”

Arthur can’t say he disagrees. “Elyan must be proud. Having the Captain of the Knights court his sister.”

Lancelot’s straightens up a bit. “He’s granted his blessing, said he would be honored if I joined their family.” With a twinkle in his eye he adds. “Gwen hit him with a ladle after he said that. Said she could make her own blessing in regards to a courting knight.”

“And then she stammered and ran away?”

“And then she stammered and hammered dents out of a shield. Forcefully.”

For the first time since arriving, Arthur can’t help but laugh, a truly amused, honest laugh. Both at the story and at being overjoyed that Gwen is, after everything, still Gwen.  “And where,” he says when he calms down, “Sir Lancelot, are you taking me?”

“The King has requested you break fast with him and his court.” Arthur can feel his elation melt away almost instantly. “There’s no motive, and Alator will ensure no spells come to harm you.”

“Alator?”

“A high priest of the Old Religion and a warrior. He’s the guardian here, ensuring the safety of this keep.”

Just yesterday he would be afraid to be near any priest of the Old Religion. Today, today he’ll keep on guard, but he’ll also not give in to his fear. So far, Lancelot has kept his word.

They end up in the great hall from yesterday, with the archway doors wide open. Where once was a near empty hall, tables have been set up in a familiar curved shape, just like the one back at Camelot. Though Balinor and his wife sit just in front of the stairs at the head table, it is on the same level at the others, and knights and peasants seem to be eating together.

Lancelot guides him to the seat to the right of Balinor, a seat usually reserved for a king’s son. He’s hesitant to take it, but Lancelot is already sitting in the next seat over and the queen—Hunith, just smiles at him until he finally sits down. The Warlock’s other three knights are scattered about the room, and for a moment his gaze lands on Percival. The man glances up and offers a small nod of greeting, but otherwise turns his attention back to the woman sitting next to him. No hint of anger or regret for his actions last night, and if Arthur hadn’t been there he’d never know the turmoil that must be roiling around inside Percival’s soul just by his sitting here.

That’s a man he’d be honored to fight with. That’s a man he’d be honored to fight beside, too.

Balinor interrupts his thoughts with a polite, “I know it must have been difficult, but I hope you slept well.”

“I…yes, eventually. Some.” He clears his throat. “It was quite generous, providing your son’s room.”

That earns him a wistful grin. “Merlin would have insisted. He’s not very fond of the room. He always complains it’s too large.”

By Arthur’s standards the room was quite small, maybe half the size of his own chambers back at Camelot, but he keeps that thought to himself. “I noticed the fire, from the window. Is it still…?”

Balinor nods wearily. “The Black Knight is quite determined. Anhora is doing what he can to slow him down, but he continues this way. I have our best sorcerers attempting to discern the spell and its counter.”

“Why not simply face it in combat? It’s a knight.”

“It’s undead and strengthened by dark magics.” At this, the King scowls. “The list of sorcerers powerful enough to cast such spells is limited.”

“Including you,” he blurts out the accusation before he can stop himself.

Balinor just lets out a quiet, self-deprecating laugh. “I have no such power, Arthur. The Fisher King, the last one, he was one of such power. It’s how he weaved the enchantment that exists today. But I?” He glances up as servers start appearing with platters of food. “I’m merely a dragonlord. I know some additional spells, scrying, healing. Nothing like the ones cast upon the Black Knight.”

Uncertain how to respond, Arthur turns his attention to the platter set before him. It’s simple food: some toast, sausage, and a pitcher of water. Nothing fancy, nothing special, not even a servant to pour the water for him. For a moment he feels insulted, but glancing around he finds that it’s not just him, but the king and queen, the knights, everyone has a similar meal. Those bringing the food out simply retreat to the kitchen, not bothering to stay and help.

Seeming to catch on to his confusion, Balinor says, “I’ve lived a life being served upon and lived one without. When I established this place, I arrived alone. I hunted my own food, served myself. Hunith joined me soon after, with a few from her village.”

Leaning forward, Hunith smiles at him, “I’ve been darning my own clothes for years, and I certainly don’t need someone to pour my drinks or dress me or start a fire.”

Wrapping some bread around a sausage, he carefully asks, “Then how do you maintain your throne? The knights their authority? Aren’t you worried about the pea…people taking up arms?” It’s certainly something his father has warned him about. _Ensure servants know their place, lest they get thoughts above their station._ Without that, the court might destabilize, servants turning on each other or worse, their masters.

Balinor swallows before saying, “They recognize my right both as a dragonlord and as the man who supplanted the Fisher King.” He doesn’t say it with arrogance or pride, like Uther might’ve. He states it softly, mere facts, and not something he’s especially proud of accomplishing. “Many sorcerers who come can see immediately the price, the sacrifice I’ve made, and are willing to serve. Others,” here, his gaze shifts to Lancelot, “others accept it because we have tested each other.”

Arthur turns his attention to the other chair beside him, and Lancelot is sitting up with a small grin. “When I first arrived, I sought to be a knight. Lord Balinor challenged me, to prove I had the strength and will to serve.”

He knows those challenges, has made them himself, even. “How many times did it take you to succeed in besting him?”

Lancelot ducks his head and stays silent, but Balinor says, this time with a hint a pride, “Twice. Just twice.”

He whips around in his seat so fast he almost falls off. “Twice?!” No one bested Arthur in just two attempts nowadays. It took at least six, and to do so in under a minute if they even wished to be a true Knight of Camelot. “Then why issue the challenge, if it wasn’t real?”

Still genial and, with a hint of amusement in his tone, the King says, “Of course it was real. I’m a dragonlord, I know how to fight. But even in my youth I was merely a good swordsman, not a great one like you. Or Lancelot.”

Glancing back, a flush has spread to Lancelot’s cheeks. “You honor me, Lord Balinor. I was merely-“

“He proved his prowess then,” Balinor interrupts, “and has proved his mettle since.”

Arthur settles back in his seat, finally eating the sausage in his hand and lets his mind turn that over. When he swallows, he say, “So the knights respect you, because they have all challenged Lancelot. They acknowledge his authority, and by his deference to you, they all do the same.”

“It helps that most of the knights are not seeking land and titles, but to defend those who have suffered the Great Purge. With some exceptions.”

Taking another look around the hall, Arthur picks out each and every knight, other than the four usually with Merlin. He notices that none of them are bearing the colors of Essetir or any other nation with the exception of Leon. It’s certainly different, but he has to admire the fact that Balinor has made it work for his court. Though he suspects that if this weren’t a court of refugees, the entire thing would collapse into anarchy. The fact that it hasn’t speaks strongly of the King’s authority and control.

And of the unity of the people. Without land parcels or a treasury or even a noble bloodline, this group has created their own kingdom based on respect and merit. He’s sure there’s some sort of finance and certainly the magic allows them to barter and survive, but in any other kingdom, this wouldn’t be possible. Between the politics of the court and the regional differences of the refugees, it would all break down.

According to his father sorcerers are depraved murderers and betrayers.  They’re eager to kill any unlike themselves, any without magic. Only their hatred of Camelot prevents them from turning upon themselves like savage wolves. But if Gaius is to be believed, Balinor once lived in Camelot. The people fled here after their lives were destroyed by Uther, not magic. It’s not the Perilous Lands pressuring for war, but Camelot.

Is everything his father taught him on magic wrong?

_No!_ He couldn’t be wrong, not when magic summoned that great beast to kill Bedivere and Owaine. Not when magic summoned an invulnerable knight to slaughter Pellinore with aims to kill him. Not when there have been dozens of attempts on his life, on his father’s, in their own home. Magic _is_ the enemy. _Sorcerers_ can’t be trusted. How can he even begin to second guess it, after all of a day in the company of the enemy?

“Excuse me,” he says suddenly, tersely, and pushes away from the table. “I need some air.” Lancelot is up on his feet a moment later, and Arthur glares, but knows he can’t demand to be alone, not here. Not when he’s a hostage. A prisoner.

He marches out, aware of the eyes following him, of the hushed tones when he passes, and once he’s outside he keeps marching around the edge of the tower, seeking a place away from the people, away from everything so he can settle his mind.

He has a lifetime of lessons telling him to trust nothing, to believe nothing, to escape or die trying because these people are evil. His own experiences now are telling him those lessons are wrong. That his father is wrong. That he has to stop and re-examine, re-evaluate, everything he’s been taught.

It feels like a betrayal, to his father, to Camelot, and even to himself.

He stops marching and slams a fist into the wall. Hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to break anything. He can sense Lancelot only a few steps behind him, giving him as much space as he can. His body trembles with the conflict. After a minute, he bites out, “Why did you bring me here?”

“Sire-“

He whips around and glares. “ _Why_ did you bring me here?! To tell me stories?! To lie for my sympathy?! To make me betray my father, Camelot, _everything_ I know?!” He storms forward a few steps and grabs Lancelot by the scruff of his chainmail. _“Why?!”_

The knight doesn’t defend himself, just stands unresisting and looks him in the eye. “I brought you here because of Merlin.”

Arthur shoves at him disgustedly. “The Warlock,” he spits, “is an _idiot._ How simple do you have to be to protect the _enemy?!_ He should have let me die!”

“Because _you_ are _his_ enemy?” Lancelot’s tone is almost pitying. “That’s not how Merlin thinks, Arthur.”

“Then tell me, Sir Lancelot,” he infuses as much vitriol into the title as he can, “how does _Mer_ lin think?”

Lancelot watches him for a minute, then quietly says, “He hates it. He hates that you march into this land, into his home, and fight and kill people he’s known for years, people he’s spoken with and befriended and helped build this place with. He hates every death because that’s one more person he can’t save, one more life taken in a bloody, needless vendetta.

“He saved you, Arthur,” Lancelot continues, “because enemy or not, he couldn’t stand by and let you—not the enemy, not the Prince of Camelot—you, Arthur, a person, die without trying to save you. If he could’ve saved everyone hurt by it, he would have.”

Lancelot lets him stew on that, taking a few steps back before he says, “I brought you here, Sire, because it’s safer here than your own camps. Someone unleashed powerful dark magics to kill you, and if he were awake, Merlin would insist we help you, even if you didn’t want it. You, and Camelot, have no defenses against that sort of power.”

The speech chips away at his anger, his uncertainty, because the conviction in Lancelot’s voice is convincing enough for Arthur to believe it’s the truth. He’s so earnest in his admission that Arthur forces himself to take a deep breath and tries to force the last of his rage from his mind. It doesn’t go away, but he’s able to bury it, along with some of the confusion by his conflicting thoughts. “I apologize, Lancelot. I…it’s difficult.”

In a manner very reminiscent of Percival, Lancelot shrugs. “I’m sure we’re not at all what you expected, especially after hearing some of Uther’s stories about sorcerers.”

Arthur lets out a light snort. “That’s putting it mildly.” He takes a deep breath. “It’s hard to believe, that what I was taught was false.”

From out of nowhere, a sharp, feminine voice cuts across with, “Apparently you aren’t so pigheaded as to recognize the truth in front of your face. It must be a miracle, Prince Arthur acknowledging he doesn’t know everything.”

Both he and Lancelot turn, and Arthur feels a lump in his throat. The woman who spoke is wearing a long leaf-green dress that drapes across her shoulders not unlike the statues of the Romans. Her skin is pale and delicate, almost hiding the silver bracelets adorning her wrists. Two of her fingers are adorned with elaborate rings, including a silver one bearing the teardrop sapphire of the Cornwall estate.

Her neck is slender and long, but the necklaces framing it no longer bear jewels, just three loops of simple golden links. They stand out sharply contrasted with both her skin, and the ebony curled hair that trails over his shoulders up to a smooth brow and regal face. Her eyes match her dress, and are as sharp and perceptive as he remembers them. Her lips twist into a smirk, both belittling and familial, and she raises one pointed eyebrow as he meets her gaze.

With more emotion than he’d like, he chokes out the name, “Morgana.”


	7. Chapter 7

After a long minute of simply staring at her, Arthur manages to stumble his way over. She looks warily at him when he’s just in front of her, as if he might attack her. It hurts, it physically hurts with an ache in his chest and all he can do is repeat, “Morgana,” again before enveloping her in a hug. It’s a tight hug, and after a minute her hands climb up his back and hold him just as firmly. He feels the tears trying to force their way out, and he holds her until he’s able to get himself back under his usual control.

Even so, it’s hard to pull away, but he keeps his hands on her shoulders and when she looks at him again, she’s smiling with her own damp eyes. “It’s good,” he struggles for a moment, “good to see you. That you’re well.”

“Of course, Arthur. It’s always good to see me.” Her eyes twinkle as she steps back, but as his hands slide down she grasps them with her own and squeezes his fingers. “I rode out the instant I heard you arrived.”

“I’ve been here less than a day,” he eyes her over. “And rode, on what horse can you ride like that?”

She lets out a laugh. “Of course I changed, first. And I had to give my regards to the Queen.” She becomes somber then. “You know about Merlin, don’t you?”

He lets go of her hands. “Yes. I’m the one who carried him from the field.”

Her eyes widen, then narrow. “Even though he’s a warlock? What would Uther think?”

There’s venom behind his father’s name, and he knows it’ll be aimed at him next. “He saved my life,” he admits easily. “I didn’t feel it was honorable to just let him die.”

“But he’s a sorcerer. An enemy. You’ve been trying to kill him for weeks.”

He sighs and takes a step back. “I wasn’t thinking about that.” She crosses her arms. “Okay, fine, yes, I was thinking about that. But…he’d just rode his steed straight at the creature, even though if I’d died the campaign would’ve probably been paused, if not ended. He didn’t have to, and…and,” he takes a deep breath, then lets it out slowly, looks down and whispers, “I’m trying to figure out why.”

He isn’t sure if Lancelot hears the admission, but Morgana does, and that’s all that matters as she lowers her arms and lets out her own long sigh. “Oh Arthur.”

“I missed you,” he admits, just as softly. “So has father.”

She snorts and says, “I don’t care about him.” Then, more gently, she adds, “I missed you too.”

They stand in silence together, both awkward and comfortable, and eventually he raises his arm and crooks his elbow to escort her the rest of the way around the tower. With a tilt of her head she accepts, and then they’re walking, almost like old times in Camelot’s gardens.

After a few more minutes he asks, “Can you tell me what happened? I’ve heard what…what Leon had to say.”

She eyes the broken down wall surrounding the back of the tower. “He really did save me. My nightmares, the dreams-“

“They were always too accurate.”

“It’s prophetic. It’s my magic. And then I set fire to the curtains and,” she looks at him from the corner of her eye. “I couldn’t tell Uther, but I was so afraid he’d find out. Someone would find out. When Leon admitted he knew the truth…” She shudders all over, and he can’t help but stare. Morgana has never backed away from a challenge, and always faced down her fears.

Then again, she’s never actually _admitted_ to being afraid before.

Which meant Uther frightened her. No, not Uther, his stance on magic. _Would he?_ He can’t actually think it. He’s absolutely sure Uther would never let any harm come to Morgana. He’s also equally unsure that Uther’s love for her doesn’t overcome his hatred for magic.

_Would he…_

Morgana’s had nightmares for years. It wasn’t a spell or a curse. She had magic, she’s had magic half her life. Uther wouldn’t, couldn’t condemn her for something she was born with, right?

Then he remembers all the beheadings and burnings, and shuts off that line of thought because if people don’t have a choice, are just born with magic, how many were put to death for something they had no control of receiving?

He flinches, and the sympathetic, knowing look Morgana gives him means she knows exactly where his mind went.

She always could read him extremely well.

Another minute passes, silent except for a quiet wind and the shuffle of Lancelot’s steps behind them. Finally, she clears her throat and continues with, “Leon said that the Fisher King would recognize him, but if he rode under a flag of white maybe he could get me to someone who could help. It wasn’t hard to sneak out, half the servants assumed we were having a tryst.” There’s an amused twist to her lips at that. “We rode under darkness, and avoided the battlefield. It took nearly two extra days of travel.

“It was her majesty Hunith who met us, no guards, no weapons. She said a High Priestess saw my arrival, and wanted me to know that I was welcome, no matter from whence I came.” Her smile softens at that. “Leon offered to ride back, to face the consequences.” She squeezed his arm. “I convinced him to stay, that returning to Camelot would lead to nothing but his death.”

Arthur tilts his head back and tucks that away, with a note to ask why Leon left that bit out of his story.

She nudges him with her elbow. “You’d better not have been rude, Arthur. He saved my life.”

“Until last night I thought he was a traitor. Of course I was rude.”

“Arthur!”

He holds up his free hand, palm towards her and promises, “I’ll speak with him. I…there’s a lot we need to discuss.” An apology from him, something his father told him never to do, especially to a subordinate. She doesn’t look satisfied, but lets out a hum. He knows that sound, the one meaning she isn’t happy with him but she won’t deal with it. Now. Rolling his eyes at the familiar routine, he lowers his hand and asks, “What happened when you arrived?”

“When we returned to the tower Essetir had sent an envoy to let Balinor know Camelot had tried to cross his lands. She,” she smiles then, carefree and warm like she used to before the nightmares, “was a High Priestess of the Old Religion, named Morgause.” She turns the grin on him and says, “She’s my half sister.”

He stops at that. “Goloris had a mistress?” That’s gossip he’d never heard before.

She stops walking then, squeezes his arm tightly. “Arthur,” another deep breath, “Arthur, I was never a ward. I’m Uth…” She grimaces. “I’m your sister. Half-sister.”

He knows he looks stunned, can feel his jaw open and eyes wide. It only takes a moment to make the connections. This Morgause must be Goloris and Vivienne’s daughter, while Morgana is Vivienne’s and Uther’s. He does the math and realizes it must’ve happened after his mother died, the following year or so. For a moment, he sees red, because twelve months is not a proper mourning period, not for a queen and definitely not for his mother.

Morgana’s grip keeps him grounded though, reminds him that he can’t charge off and accuse his father of…of anything at the moment. That the fire caused by this revelation will have to smolder in the background until everything—his time here, the war, his rite of ascension—is completed. Then, and only then, can he face down Uther, demand answers, demand to know why.

Because he’s learning the truth, but what he doesn’t know is why. Why the Great Purge, why a hatred of magic, why hide Morgana’s heritage.

“Half-sister,” he finally says, realizing that he’s been silent for far too long. “Now you besting me at swordplay makes sense. It’s in your blood.”

She’s taken aback by his response. Obviously she was expecting him to yell, to deny it, but if there’s one thing he trusts, it’s that Morgana—like Gaius—will always be brutally honest with him. With the exception of the magic, she always has been. “You believe me?” There’s a tone of uncertainty and incredulity in question.

“Morgana,” he thinks for a minute, “What have you to gain by lying to me? A claim to the throne? As Uther’s ward, you were already in the succession. To manipulate me?” He lets out a bitter chuckle. “To what end? I can’t go back, and you know if I could I’d never challenge father during a war. Besides, it would explain a lot.” He smirks. “You’ve always had his stubborn streak.”

She slaps his arm for that, but she’s smiling and leans a little closer as they start walking again. “So,” he comments, “Morgause…”

“Right.” He can spot unshed tears in her eyes as she talks, blinking rapidly to try and hide them. “She knew of a bracelet to help me with my dreams. Not this one,” she says, of the one she’s wearing that’s pressing against his own wrist. “Another one, but I don’t need it any more. She taught me a few things, but Hunith suggested I spend some time with the Druids.”

The tears are gone as she turns to smile at him. “Arthur, I’ve never felt so at peace, so accepted. I don’t have nightmares anymore, I can control my magic. And, well, there’s this boy, Mordred…”

“A Druid boy?” He scoffs. “Surely you can do better.” She narrows her eyes and he rolls his own. “You deserve better,” he adds on, “but I’ll not admit that again.”

“He’s quite polite and has gorgeous eyes,” she says haughtily.

“Does he know how to keep you in jewels?”

“No, but I have a sister for that.”

He snorts again, and this time she laughs. They’re almost all the way around, back to the entrance of the hall, when she says, “Thank you,” with a depth and sincerity that he almost never hears her use.

“I’m glad Leon got you somewhere safe.” And he is, even if he can’t help being upset with him still. Years of hatred don’t just disappear.

Though this place is certainly testing the limits of that…

“Arthur, promise me-“

“Yes, I’ll talk to him.”

She nods, satisfied. People are leaving, and he can’t help but stiffen up as, behind them, one of the tables actually floats out of the room. She glances at him and lets go of his arm. “It’s like a sword, Arthur. It’s a tool, for good and ill.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m comfortable with it,” He snaps. Her good mood evaporates and he forces himself to relax. “It’s just…it’s hard to be around it.”

She stares at him, then finally gives him a terse nod. She looks up again, and squeezes her hands together. “I’m going to see Merlin. Will you join me?

Reflexively he wants to say no, but he doesn’t have much else to do, and maybe the news will have changed. And the idiot did save his life. He nods. Lancelot moves closer as they enter, and together they climb the stairs up to the throne room. There’s no sign Gaius or the woman, Alice, when they arrive. Hunith is there, as is Gwen. Will and Gwaine are in the corner, the former of which scowls at him and the latter gives him a shrewd look.

He ignores them both and stands by as Morgana hugs Gwen, then Hunith, before kneeling down before Merlin. He wants to scoff, but he stops himself. Technically, Merlin is a prince, so she’s not exactly out of line. It’s just hard to think of the lanky, too skinny big-eared boy before him as a prince. Although the shine of the light seems to make his skin glow, and even unconscious there’s an air of power about him, not authority, just raw, tempered power.

“Has there been any change,” Morgana finally asks, rubbing Merlin’s hand. Arthur knows from carrying him that his skin is probably still fevered, although he can’t see any signs of sweat. “No healing spells, no poultices, nothing?”

Hunith’s face is crumpled, and he can tell she’s trying to stay strong but she’s utterly crushed by the knowledge that, if Gaius is right, her son is as good as dead. Gwen squeezes Hunith’s hand, then slips down to kneel beside Morgana. “No, my lady.”

“Not a lady,” Morgana protests, “and you’re no more a servant.”

She shrugs it off with a simple, “Old habits,” but she doesn’t take her eyes off Merlin. “The chair is keeping him alive. Balinor tried speaking with the dragon, but we haven’t heard anything yet.”

Morgana lets out a quiet sniff, and then Gwaine’s walking over, prowling around the edge of the room only to come up beside him and say, “Come on, let’s leave the ladies for a bit. I’ll bet you could do with some practice.”

He’d object, but the boy, Will, stalks after Gwaine like a shadow, and is still glaring at him. Obviously, they want to get something off their chests, and if it has to be with swords, well, Arthur’s never backed down from a challenge. He eyes Merlin over once more, then nods. “Lead the way. Maybe I can teach you some proper sword techniques.”

“Doubt it, princess.”

Lancelot looks like he’s sucked on a lemon, but Gwaine whispers in his ear and, eventually, the Captain reluctantly nods. When they head towards the door, Lancelot goes to occupy the corner Gwaine and Will were just in. He gives Arthur a long, knowing look, before turning his attention to the comatose Warlock.

With a smirk and a scowl aimed at him, Arthur follows the knight back down the stairs, eager for a chance to put all thoughts save the challenge out of his head.


	8. Chapter 8

Rather than head outside, like he expects, Gwaine takes the stairs leading beneath the entrance hall, down to the bottom where there’s another hall, cavernous with Roman archways to support the weight of the stones above and a floor covered with grime and bloodstains. Against one wall is a makeshift weapons rack, holding mostly swords but also a couple battle axes and staves that he’s pretty sure only Percival’s hands could wrap around.

“Something wrong, Pendragon,” Gwaine asks, heading over to the rack and picking up what Arthur assumes is his usual weapon. “Never fought indoors before?”

“Of course I have.” He stalks over and eyes the weapons. They’re all blunted, but handling a couple he finds they’re fairly well balanced. Perfectly, actually. He hasn’t seen such craftsmanship since Camelot. And then he remembers Gwen, and Elyan. He’ll have to remember to stop by and compliment the man on his skill. His father taught him the trade well. Finally picking a sword, he says, “Most training fields are outside.”

“The footmen and some of the others train there, but lots of sorcerers practice outside. Figured you’d want somewhere your ‘delicate sensibilities’ wouldn’t be offended.” His smirk is devilish.

“Thoughtful,” Arthur hums, lowly swinging his sword to test it further. He takes a moment to study Gwaine more closely as well. He’s an unconventional fighter, one that speaks of tavern brawls, yet there’s unmistakable tells that mean he’s had some formal training. Unlike Percival and Lancelot, he doesn’t seem like a peasant or apprentice. No, if he had a guess, he’d say Gwaine might’ve been a bard, charming and provincial, never staying in once place too long due to wanderlust or a guard after him for stealing. Or a vagabond, a wandering swordsman, but not mercenary; he didn’t have that edge he’d seen in some of the men hired by Uther in dire times.

“You just gonna wave the sword around or are we going to spar?”

Arthur obligingly settles into position. Will, he notes, stays by the weapons, still glaring at him. As he circles, he makes a note to keep him in sight. This might be an unexpected ambush, and though blunted, the weapons could still kill in the right hands.

Gwaine taps his sword on the side lightly, teasingly. “I’d heard you’re the best in tourneys, always taking the prize.”

“Probably his father, fixing the matches,” Will complains in an acerbic tone.

They’re trying to rile him, get him to make the first move, to lose his temper.

“Naw, not Pendragon,” Gwaine defends, still grinning, “he seems too pigheaded to let Uther do that.” Arthur waits, and isn’t disappointed when the man continues with, “Doesn’t need daddy to fix the matches. He can do it himself.”

He grinds his teeth, strikes the edge of Gwaine’s sword with a little more force, but they’re still circling, neither making the first move. “A shame you don’t belong to a kingdom who can enter them,” he snaps back. “You can slander all you like, but my accolades are earned and recognized. What do you have to show for your boasting?” His lets loose with his own vicious smirk at both of them. “A broken castle and a dead Warlock.”

Gwaine’s demeanor shifts as quickly as his feet, and suddenly they’re in it, swords clashing for real, ducking and swiping and Arthur lets the anger, the irritation of everything flow out of him in a controlled burn, focusing that energy on his awareness of his opponent, on reading the knight’s muscles and shifts and predicting his next move.

He can tell Gwaine’s doing the same, but he doesn’t have the control. He lets out bursts of frustration and anger that telegraph his moves, the way he blocks with the sword only to throw a punch, or get in line to trip him with a well-timed kick. He doesn’t, however, fight dirty like Arthur’s known brawlers to do. He’s taking this as a challenge of honor, not just a simple fight or spar between two knights. It’s a contest, and he can see behind his eyes a fire of determination to win, to _beat_ him, to prove he’s a better knight, a better person.

Arthur’s seen that look before. He woke up every day in Camelot seeing that look in his own eyes until he earned the right to lead the knights. He sees it whenever there’s a tournament in Camelot. Gwaine and he, he recognizes, have a lot more in common, maybe more than he can ever have with Percival or Lancelot. Maybe even more than Leon.

It also makes him realize, though, that when he’s caught his own reflection these last few weeks, there’s been no fire, no determination. Not like the tournaments, not like earning his way to the top. He had it at first, he knows he did…didn’t he? He’s not sure. When he had a cause, to exterminate the magic, bring down the Fisher King, yes. He doesn’t have one now. This war…if everything he’s heard is true, this war is pointless, a war started by his father that holds no value other than to kill people.

The spark of revulsion and anger at that realization, the one he’s kept smoldering since he ran from the Questing Beast, burns white hot, and before, before they were matching, blow to blow, fake to fake. Now, now Arthur taps into that spark and his strikes are harder, his movements defter. The world crystalizes between him and his opponent, and in a matter of heartbeats he recognizes holes in the man’s defenses. First one, then two, more and more as the man tries to keep up with him, tries to stop him, until with a guttural shout he’s knocked the sword from Gwaine’s hand, spun behind him, slammed into his back and kicked him over, his blade to the man’s throat.

He’s panting, gasping for air as he glares down and pushes the dulled point further into the neck, almost enough to break the skin. Gwaine keeps up the defiance for three, four breaths before opening his palms and tilting his head back, yielding. For a moment, he considers pushing harder. He’s an enemy knight. He’s killed dozens of his own men.

The same is true for everyone in this castle. He can’t kill them all with a dulled sword.

He’s not sure he wants to any more.

He finally pulls the blade back with a respectful nod, and is about to offer his hand when he sees a blur from the corner of his eye and turns just far enough for Will to land a solid punch to his chin, knocking him back a few steps. “What,” he starts, terse and sharp.

“That’s for Merlin!” He’s running forward again, arm already pulled back to hit him again. “And this is for what you said!”

He let the man get one over him, he’s not letting another. He ducks the fist, grabs it, twists and sidesteps until he’s behind Will and holding the dull blade across his throat. The peasant—and this close, he can tell, this man is a farmhand, pure and simple—goes immediately still, snarling.

“Go ahead,” he taunts, “I punched a prince. Death penalty in Camelot, right? A punch, a sword, a spell. It’s all the same to you.” He says like last word with bile and derision.

Arthur freezes as well. Is that how the world views Camelot? Not the Five Kingdoms, Camelot’s allies, but the rest? Here in the court of the Fisher King it’s easy to dismiss as a mindset, repeating the phrases of the persecuted. But what of Essetir? From Lancelot’s comment, Cenred’s mistress is someone familiar with magic, if not a sorcerer herself. What about Caerleon? It’s rumored they have sorcerers hidden about, are sympathetic to those suffering from the Great Purge.

Is it just Camelot hunting practitioners of the Old Religion?

He sets those thoughts aside, more that he has to consider, to think about, and it just…he’s not up for it at this very moment.

This very moment, a very tense, quiet moment between him and Will, ends when he comes back to himself, tilts the blade slightly and taps the flat of it against the peasant’s throat. That earns him a confused, strangling nose from the man he’s holding, and he shoves the boy away. He’s unstable a second, but he doesn’t stumble and fall over. Instead, he glares from Arthur to Gwaine, then to the floor.

Finally, Arthur says quietly, “We’re not in Camelot.”

“As if that matters,” Will mutters.

Arthur takes a deep breath and says, “And I apologize, for what I said about your Warlock.”

The glare is back on him. “He has a name,” Will grinds out between his teeth.

“I never asked for him to take on the Questing Beast,” he continues.

“It’s your fault he’s…that he’s…” There’s tears in his voice, but he’s holding them back.

“I told you,” Gwaine gently says, getting to his feet with only a small wince, “if you hit him, you have to hit me. I didn’t stop Merlin.”

“You don’t need it. You already blame yourself. He,” an accusing finger is pointed at him, “doesn’t care. Just another sorcerer to him. Better off dead.”

“I’m not a murderer. And I ca…it matters,” he settles on. He’s not sure how much he cares for the Warl—Merlin’s life just yet. “You think I like fighting on that field, that I enjoy watching men I’ve trained, men I’ve known since childhood, get killed by your sorcerers and footmen?” He steps forward, looming over Will. “You think I _like_ that we’re at war? At least I’m fighting for my kingdom. _I’ve_ bled on that battlefield! Where were you? Looking up women’s dresses? Scrubbing the floors?”

Will’s face twists up, but Gwaine’s between them in a flash, blocking any blows. “Cool down, Pendragon.”

In an instant he’s staring down Gwaine. “Me?! I’m the one accused of being heartless! If I’m so heartless why did I bring Merlin’s body away from the scene? I _should_ have let him die!”

Will yells, “Then why didn’t you!”

“Because for some gods-forsaken reason he tried to save me!” Arthur storms away then, dropping the sword to run his hands through his hair. “I wish he’d never done it. I wish I’d found a way to strike him dead and end this bloody war _weeks_ ago!”

Over Gwaine’s shoulder, Will hurls, “He could take you apart with one hand!”

Arthur snorts and crosses his arms. “If he’s had that power, then I’m right, he’s an idiot because he never _used_ it!”

“You-“

Gwaine shoves the smaller man, “Shut up, Will!”

Will’s agape for all of a minute before turning red in the face and shouting, “You’re _defending_ this sod?! You could’ve been rid of him ages ago!” And then he’s on the floor and Arthur’s stunned, because Gwaine just backhanded Will hard enough to put him on his back. “What-“

“Merlin,” Gwaine says darkly, “is _not_ a _weapon_.” Will looks like he’s been slapped again. “I know you’re angry, I know you hate him because your best friend is dying upstairs. I hate him because _my_ best friend is dying upstairs. And I won’t let you tarnish his name by making him a pawn or tool. That the druids do it is disgusting enough. You’re his _best friend!_ Act like it!”

The tears Will was holding back earlier spill out, and brokenly he sputters, “Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean… I’m an arse, you know I don’t think-“

“I know. Just…leave me be for the day, ya?”

Will nods, gives Arthur an uncertain look, then scrambles to his feet and is running up the stairs. When it’s obvious he’s gone Gwaine’s entire body seems to have the air let out of him, his head hanging so his hair hides his face. Silently, Arthur picks up the sword he dropped, then goes and grabs the one he knocked from Gwaine’s hand and puts both back on the rack. He fiddles with the weapons a bit, giving the man a moment to collect himself.

Without prompting he hears, “He could, you know. Take you apart with one hand.”

When Arthur turns around he finds Gwaine is sitting with his back against the far wall, head tilted back and eyes shut. Making enough noise to let the knight know where he’s moving, Arthur takes a seat over an arm’s length away from him, taking up the same position. “Then why hasn’t he? It’d end the war.”

Craning his head to the side and squinting one eye open, Gwaine gives him a humorless grin. “He’s the most powerful sorcerer alive. I’ve seen him raise water in a barren land, call a windstorm to banish raiders, and burn monsters with only a word.” There’s pride in his voice, with just a hint of anguish behind it. “Those bloody druids have a prophecy about him, how he’ll bring about a Golden Age, and they treat him like a prophet, a thing.” His hand twirls around lazily. “One of their holy relics. Not a person. A thing. A tool.”

He’s tilts his head back, but this time his eyes are open, staring at the ceiling. With a touch of reverence, he reports, “He never needed an army, Arthur. The war isn’t because he enjoys it, or doesn’t know his power. It terrifies him. He’s afraid one day he’ll lose himself, fall into all that magic and become the druid’s tool; a relic, a weapon to be pointed and unleashed at the nearest enemy. He does what he can to slow you down, to save as many lives as possible, but…he doesn’t like killing, even in defense, unless there’s no other choice.”

The grin is a little more genuine as he says, “We fight so he doesn’t have to. We fight to protect him, not because of your swords and arrows. He can shield himself from that. We protect him from that fear, from becoming just another weapon to all and sundry.”

Arthur has a feeling what was just revealed is not meant for his ears, something undoubtedly expressed by Merlin to Gwaine and maybe his other knights during training, or a late dinner. An intimate weakness that he probably never wanted the world to know. And Gwaine is telling him, entrusting him with that knowledge. It’s a huge lapse in security, or a sign that the knight believes Arthur’s, at least, an honorable man, and can keep a secret.

And he intends to keep it, to honor what Gwaine has shared, one knight to another.

However, he has to ask, “You don’t seem too fond of me. So why?”

Gwaine leans forward at that, eyebrows raised and devilish smirk back, if a little subdued. “Nothing personal. Not a fan of nobles. Useless lot, selfish and greedy, uncaring for those beneath their station.”

“Sounds like you agree with Will.”

“I do, but I’ve watched you in battle and after it. You’re like Merlin, you care about those who fall. Maybe not on our side, but your own, be they footmen or knights. I’ve also heard some stories, about tax reliefs in poor harvest seasons.”

“My father makes those choices.”

The smirk grows. “Not in the stories I’ve heard. No, you, Arthur Pendragon, may be the second noble I’ve ever met that I wouldn’t mind knowing.”

“After Balinor,” he says knowingly.

“Pfft, he’s not a noble. Dragonlord, yes, but he’s like me, a man of the world, who knows the hard life. I meant that stiff of yours from Camelot. Leon.”

Arthur rolls his eyes and they descend into silence. Gwaine closes his eyes again, and Arthur has to admit, “I do wish he hadn’t done it, you know.”

Gwaine’s shoulders slump. “Is that because you owe him a debt, or you wish you weren’t here.”

“If that beast was sent to kill me, I had a right to try and slay it before it harmed anyone else.”

“You wouldn’t’ve have been able to. Remember? Can only be slain by magic.”

“Maybe, but he should’ve let me die. Any other commander would.”

That earns him a chuckle. “That’s our Merlin, not doing what anyone else would.” He lets out a sigh. “He admired you, you know.”

“Me?”

“You waded in there every day, and you left tired and wounded, but were back again, never letting your men face what you couldn’t.” Once again the knight’s gaze turns towards him. “We all respect you for that. I think that might be why he did it. He saw you weren’t like Uther, you didn’t just send men to fight and watch. You fought with them, you bled with them, you spent time with them. It wasn’t knights and peasants. They were all your people. I’ve never seen a prince like that.”

Arthur wants to bask in the praise and shun it at the same time. He’s had enemies admit their admiration for his fighting prowess and strategic minds, but never how he treated his men. Before he can dwell on it too much, Gwaine follows up with, “He still thought you were an arse and got bloody mad when you rallied your men with speeches about the evils of sorcery.” He smirks. “Don’t want compliments to go to your head.”

“Thanks,” he says dryly. After another moment, he asks, “Did Elyan forge these weapons?”

“He and Gwen. Impressive those two. You met them?”

“Gwen, yes. Not Elyan.”

Gwaine scoots over long enough to slap him on the shoulder twice before hauling himself to his feet. “Then you’re in for a treat. Best swordsmith and,” he adds with a wink, “always has a barrel of mead. Don’t know where he gets his supply, but always goes down smooth.”

Getting up and dusting himself off, he snorts. “Mead and a forge. I’m sure nothing bad could come of that.”

As it turns out, Elyan remembers Arthur fondly, and after two mugs of mead Gwaine is telling stories of adventures that attract some nearby knights. Some give him side glances, but on the whole are content to share Elyan’s drink and laugh at Gwaine’s renditions.

It’s just past midday by the sun’s position, and with Gwaine distracted Arthur sneaks away to the forge, where he saw Elyan disappear to a little earlier. He’s not hammering anything at the moment, or handling anything to do with the fire. He’s simply sharpening a dagger with a whetstone humming quietly. He glances up when Arthur enters. “Your Highness.”

“Elyan.” He nods, notices there’s nowhere to sit, and leans against the wall. He studies the man, clad in a simple clothes and a heavy leather apron. His hands have minor burns and healed cuts, his hair is nearly shorn from his head, but the embers of the hearth reflecting off the darker skin and making his eyes sparkle is a welcome familiar sight. Arthur had seen Elyan looking exactly like that every time he passed Camelot’s forge when Elyan was learning from his father. They’d had a bond he’d envied, wished he could have with his own father when he caught them laughing together or singing to entertain Gwen while they worked. He’s older now, and the spitting image of his father. He half expects the younger version to appear at his side, ready and eager to learn today’s lesson.

Shaking off the nostalgia, he teases, “Gwaine mentioned your daring rescue to save him and the daughters of a very well-to-do farmer.”

“In this version does he sleep with one or both?”

“Both, plus the farmer’s wife.” That earns him a chuckle. After a minute, though, he says, “For all his exaggerations, though, it felt like he wasn’t embellishing your skills. Especially as I have memory of you teaching Gwen how to fight so she could spar with Morgana.”

“Children’s fight. I learned to use a sword, have to in my profession.” He waves at the building they’re in.

Arthur waits a moment. “You could be a knight,” he says quietly. “Lancelot and Percival and Gwaine, they’re skilled. If you’ve learned more since you left Camelot, you must be as good as them. Why…”

“Why not go for knighthood? Elevate my position?” Elyan sets both the stone and the weapon down and nudges the items away from him. He doesn’t look up from them.

“Gwen may not remember why you left, but I do. You were seeking to make your way, earn if not a noble’s position, their favor as a smith.” It hurt, at the time. Elyan is older than him by a few years, and back then being told Camelot’s favor wasn’t good enough stung. “So why didn’t you take the opportunity here?”

He’s quiet for a bit, then, “I was captured, for a short while. The King of Essetir thought to use me to draw Gwen, and through her you, out. Until he’d discovered Gwen had left. When Morgana learned I was in his dungeons, she had me released.” His left hand moves forward enough to rest on the hilt of the dagger. “Gwen told me, about Morgana’s departure, about her imprisonment. Our father…”

He’s not grief-stricken, not like Percival was, and not simmering mad, like Gwaine. “I’m sorry. I tried, you had to know-“

“Gwen told me how you saved her. I don’t blame you. Not now.” He picks up the stone and stares at it. “Truth be told I started to be a knight, to avenge my father, to hurt you like Gwen was.” He looks around at the forge, his gaze taking it all in while avoiding Arthur. “Gwen was here, honoring our father’s memory. And I thought about our next war with you. I thought about marching off and slaying Uther.” He clenches his fist around the stone, then releases his grip, and puts it back on the table. “I thought about dying by your blade. About Gwen being left alone.”

He finally looks up at Arthur. “I can fight. If I’m called to defend this place I will. But Lancelot is leading this war. If I was by his side, Gwen would have no one left. I can’t do that. Not after…no. Balinor has been generous, and my blades are in the hands of every knight. No matter what, if we get there my blade will fell Uther. That’s revenge enough.”

And then he picks up the whetstone and weapon, and starts sharpening it again. Arthur wants to go over, to reassure Elyan that Tom didn’t die in vain. But he did, another life ruined by his father. He doesn’t say goodbye. He honestly can’t think of what to say. So he nods, accepting, and walks out of the forge.

Leon’s waiting for him outside. A sharp look around is the only clue Arthur gets that something is wrong before Leon marches up and says, “We have to talk.”


	9. Chapter 9

Arthur furrows his brow. Leon looks a little nervous and his tone is slightly angry. Still, the underlying urgency in the words gets him moving, and Leon leads him back to the tower. Not running, but he’s definitely striding with a purpose. At first Arthur struggles a bit, as if Leon’s legs had become longer. Leon answers his unspoken question when he says quietly, “Merlin woke up. The Diamair, fount of all knowledge, came up with a temporary cure.”

“Temporary?” He keeps his voice as low as Leon’s, knowing what this news could herald. Merlin waking up would be wonderful for the people here, their prince no longer dying, his friends no longer mourning. If temporary, though, the blow to the kingdom’s morale would be devastating. For a moment he considers letting the news travel, but only a moment.

Balinor’s knights have given him their trust. He’s not about to repay that by sowing dissention.

“Lasts no more than an hour,” Leon continues. “Merlin said he knows of a cure, but only the one the Questing Beast sought can retrieve it.”

With how swiftly they’re moving through the tower, he’s pretty sure the hour’s almost up. Balinor and Hunith must be desperate, looking for him, the only one who can save their son. A cure. An actual cure. He just has to volunteer to fetch it.

As they storm up the steps, he can feel his heart beating, pounding as he comes face to face with his doubts. Letting the Warlock die would be a great blow in Camelot’s favor. So is he actually going to go in there, learn of the cure, and betray Camelot, his father, everything he’s ever lived to uphold? What about if he refuses, will they ensorcell him? Compel him to do their bidding because he’s Merlin’s only hope? What if this is the real reason Lancelot brought him back, that they knew all along, but needed Merlin conscious for it to work? Will they kill him if it doesn’t?

Uther will certainly kill him if he aids the enemy.

The questions circle round and round, making his head throb in time with his racing heart. He can’t not decide. The chair may keep Merlin half-alive forever, but maybe it won’t, or can’t. Balinor, the knights, everyone will be expecting his answer. Most likely on the spot.

He’s to be king one day, he reminds himself. He’ll have to know how to weigh the odds, read the situations, and from time to time, face down foreign leaders, allies or enemies, and know not only that his actions are fair and just, but the best thing for Camelot.

The best thing for Camelot would be to let the Warlock die.

The best thing for Camelot is to end this war.

The best thing for Uther is for his son to return victorious, the Perilous Lands running red with blood.

Arthur’s not sure that’s the best thing for him anymore.

He finally pulls ahead of Leon as they hit the landing, and he runs into the room, the heavy door bruising his shoulder as he shoves it open. He heads straight for Merlin, sees his eyes are closed, his breathing almost non-existent. Will is kneeling beside the seated man, had spun around when Arthur burst into the room and watches him with a guarded look.

“Buggering—did he say anything?” He turns to Will, squats down to shake his shoulders. “Did he tell you what I had to do?” He’s startled to realize there’s panic in his voice, and sees his hand shaking. He’s scared. He’s scared he’s missed his one opportunity to repay Merlin’s debt.

Apparently, his heart doesn’t care about Camelot, it cares about a hurt warlock, and maybe Arthur’s calling as a knight: to protect the weak, the helpless, the injured, when and where he can.

He could do it here. He could.

If he’d only been _faster._

Will’s face morphs from guarded to furious, and he shoves Arthur away, unbalancing him so he falls back to the floor. “Do you think this is a joke,” he yells. “You shite bastard! He’s dying and you’re trying to play a prank!” His hands are balled into fists, and Arthur skitters back before he can get a swing in.

“Leon, he said Merlin had awoken. A Diamir or something.” Now that he’s not focused, he’s taking in the rest of the room. The empty room. Balinor’s trident is still leaning on the chair, but there’s no sign of the King, Queen, any of the knights. “He told Leon to get me here, that I could save Merlin.”

Will’s furious gaze snaps up and the door closes with heavy finality, followed by strange sibilant words. He rolls over in time to see Leon turn around, a cruel smirk on his lips. “A pity you’re here,” he says, looking at Will. “Not that it matters.”

The peasant snarls, but this time he’s not running forward for a random punch. He can sense it, like Arthur can. This is a knight that wouldn’t hesitate to kill. Except it can’t be a knight. “Leon doesn’t know magic,” he says, curling his legs beneath him to push himself back up. When he stands, he looks more closely, without the urgent need for action that Leon had called for at the time.

To distract him, he realizes. To not notice the differences. The man’s an inch or two taller than Leon, all in his legs. His hair is close, but Leon’s hair is longer in the front, and a shade darker than the man before him. He’s not wearing a sword, something Arthur should’ve spotted immediately, and the chainmail he’s wearing is ill fitting.

No, it’s not the chainmail…it’s the body. It moves almost like a body does, but parts seem to drag. Running, thinking, he didn’t even notice. No one noticed.

“I was worried you wouldn’t listen, what with your big spat years ago. But no, you come running, trusting your old comrade without question, without doubt.” He snorts. “I wasn’t even sure you’d come. He,” he points his chin at the unconscious Merlin, “is your enemy. Arthur Pendragon, a traitor.” He scoffs. “Or maybe just soft after all.”

Will hasn’t moved, but Arthur tries to shift back towards the chair when the doppleganger says, “Oh no.” He waves his hand and Arthur hears the trident behind him fly to the floor. “Don’t think I’m letting you near that.” His gaze turns to Will briefly. “It really is a pity, I have no quarrel with you. But I can’t leave any witnesses.”

“Killing Pendragon,” Will cracks his knuckles. “Half the village wants to, including me. I won’t tell.”

“No, Pendragon was never going to be the problem. Emrys, on the other hand.” He waves his hand again with a whisper of, “Wáce ierlic.” He frowns when nothing happens. “Hrm. No matter. Once he’s out of the chair, the venom will do the rest.”

Will growls at that, taking a not-very menacing step forward. Arthur reaches out, grasping Will’s upper arm, halting him. “Who are you,” he finally asks.

“An old enemy.” The hair shifts just slightly, going a bit longer in the back, wilder, like that of a working man. The armor, skin, everything else about him seems to be sucked closer to his chest, and then it instantly melts away into a grey cloak and hood, leaving nothing but his feet, hands, and face exposed. And what a face. Arthur is sure he’d remembered if he’d met a man his age with the right half of his face withered and poorly healed. The scar of someone who’s been burned with fire.

With a frown, Arthur says, “I don’t know you.”

“But I know you,” now that the disguise is gone, the man’s voice is deeper, rough, and Arthur can spot that the scarring goes down his neck. “I’ve been waiting for this a long time, Pendragon. A chance at revenge, all because you helped an enemy.”

It takes Arthur an incredibly long minute before he gets it. The magic, the burn. “You’re one of the sorcerers my father put to the flame.”

The sneer is twice as terrible with the damaged skin. “He burnt my parents,” he snarls. “I tried to save them. I heard their screams for years and I promised I would enjoy making Uther do the same.” The sneer turns into a twisted smirk. “I can’t reach him. Yet. But when word travelled you were here…well, a little help in exchange for killing that.” His eyes glance to Merlin. “Who could resist?”

“You lay one finger on Merlin…” Will takes another step forward.

“Finger? I won’t lay a finger.” His eyes turn gold, so burnished they’re almost red, and with a wave of his hand a bolt of flame flies at them. Arthur pulls them both out of the way, only to realize that was the plan, leaving Merlin exposed to take the blast. Except it doesn’t hit. Three inches from the throne the fire hits a wall, a barrier that moments earlier he and Will were going through.

He can’t see the barrier. It just looks like it always does. It must be the chair, he thinks, that and the runes of the floor. This was the Fisher King’s seat of power. Of course it was protected, especially from dangerous sorcerers.

There’s a second bolt and a frustrated sound, before the sorcerer pivots on his heel. He utters harsh consonants and Arthur’s already running, pulling a resisting Will with him. The burned man snaps his wrist and it’s like a whip of fire comes out, one he lashes towards them. Arthur gets them close enough to hide momentarily behind the chair, and in that moment he hisses, “Stay with Merlin. Don’t leave the barrier.”

“I’m not letting him get close-“

“Look!” There’s another lash, closer, and this time the line of flame stays on the floor, burning despite the fact that it’s stone and no wood about. “I can’t fight him protecting Merlin and you,” he growls. “So get in the blasted barrier so I can kill the damned sorcerer!”

The barrier is small enough that he’ll practically have to sit on Merlin. It should keep him out of the fight so Arthur can concentrate. Will gives him the strangest look, one he can’t identify right now. Instead, he says, “We go in three. One, two-“

A stone beetle flies past. When it hits the ground the sorcerer calls out, “Bebiede þe arisan ealdu!” Its stone façade seems to fade and then it’s crawling rapidly towards them. “You can’t hide if your mind is being eaten from within,” he calls mockingly.

It’s colored just right to almost completely blend into the floor. “Go,” he says with a forceful push before running the other way, trying to distract the stranger long enough for Will to get safe. He’s right. There’s another lash of flame, one that nearly nicks his sword arm. He can feel the heat from the flames, and he starts planning. The room isn’t large, bigger in front of the throne than behind it, so despite the fact that he’ll be an easy target, it’s all he can do. He didn’t see where the trident fell, so he’ll just have to get close enough to kill the sorcerer by hand.

The flames vanish and once more he chants, “Wáce ierlic!” This time, the palm is facing towards him and Arthur feels himself flying across the room and slamming into the back wall. He’s held there by an unknown force, but he sees just fleeting movement by his feet. The beetle. Even as he thinks about it, the force holding him pulls him back and up, and he has only a moment to realize what’s happening before he feels his back impact harshly against the floor.

Ironically, his thrashing finally lets him get a glimpse of the damned Trident. Half a room away. And he can barely move two inches. From this angle he can see Will’s made it on the chair, trying to watch him and the sorcerer at the same time. Which is when he hears a thump. A heavy one. He’s able to lift his head to look at the door, but the hooded man laughs, ugly and mad. “A spell to seal it, one that once kept an army at bay for three days.”

“You’re in a castle of sorcerers,” he grits out, starting to panic now that he can’t see the infernal insect. “They can undo it.”

“Doubtful. Not many know the spells of the High Priestesses. It just means I have to explain how I was defending myself, how you’d decided to be rid of the sorcerer.” From the sleeves of his robe he pulls out a dagger, small, sharp, simple. “Him and his friend. That I found you, and did what I had to.” With another flare in his eyes, he lets out a sharp, “Forbærne yfel.” Flames rise up around him, encircle him. With a touch of regret in his voice, he says “No time to enjoy you losing your mind, sadly. Swefe.” He hears something ping lightly on the stone from the region of his hip, and then the accursed beetle is floating towards the sorcerer’s hand.

The weight holding him down intensifies, and he knows why when he feels the first licks of flame touch his feet. The circle of fire is contracting. He’s going to be burned alive, like the sorcerer’s parents. Burned alive and all he can do is wriggle in an invisible grip. This, this must be what Gwaine talked about, that Merlin had that much power and never used it…

His last thought is apparently going to be about admiring the control an enemy warlock has over the temptation to use his powers.

As revelations go, he wished he’d known it before he was going to die.

Just as he feels the heat envelop the tips of his fingers, there’s an inarticulate yell and the force pushing him down vanishes. Not risking a second of the opportunity, he pulls his arms over his face and rolls out of the fire before hurling himself across the room towards the Trident.

From the corner of his eye he sees Will getting up off the sorcerer. From the angle, he’d guess the man jumped to knock the magician over, breaking his concentration.

Giving Arthur a chance.

He’s nearly back to the chair when the sorcerer hurls the dagger. “Swilte Arthur!”

Defying the laws of nature, the blade flies not in a straight line, but curves around the room towards him. He has his fingers around the staff of the Trident, curling them, getting a grip, and he has to choose now, lose the weapon and escape, or grab the Trident and fail to duck a magical dagger.

In that heartbeat of choice, Will’s silhouette appears between him and the weapon. He staggers, but stays standing, clutching his chest.

Arthur lets himself be stunned for all of a moment, before getting to his feet and hurling the Trident at the just rising sorcerer.

The bladed forks bury deep into his sternum. He chokes on his own blood, raising a trembling hand before sliding down to the ground, propped up only by the angle of the weapon in his chest. When he sees the light go out of the man’s eyes, he scrambles over, pulls out the Trident, and stabs him again, pinning him to the floor.

He’s seen sorcerers rise from death before. He’s not letting this one get the chance.

“Merlin,” he hears behind him, and turns on his heel, facing the throne. The warlock’s body is slumped down, nearly falling off, but it’s still sitting on the chair. “I, I got him. The door…” Will’s words are breathless. Arthur continues his turn, but Will’s shambling towards Merlin, not stable, but moving, his color pale but not deathly. “The d-door,” he repeats.

Arthur runs over and pulls on it. Kicks it. Slams into it. He can hear the same going on behind the wood. They’re trying to get in. “It’s a spell,” he yells. “High Priestess spell!” All he gets in answer is another sound of strong men slamming against wood. He can’t even tell if they heard him. He sighs, and says, “We might be here a while. Let me look at-“

He stops. He swallows. Merlin’s body hasn’t moved, but Will’s is kneeling once more beside it, his upper body lying on the legs. He’s utterly still. Arthur runs over and tries to pry the boy off, to turn him over and look at the wound, but Will is stubbornly clinging to Merlin. “I’ve got to see it. Will, you have to let me.”

“Not…not let-ting go. Merlin. Got to...help…”

“Yes, I’ll help you get him back in the chair properly. Just let go.” He tugs again, only for Merlin to slide down a little further with the effort. “Will, Will, if you don’t let go you’ll kill him. He needs to be put back in properly.” There’s desperation in his voice, and he’s not sure why. He doesn’t particularly like Will. Doesn’t like the warlock either.

Both have saved his life now.

He’s still not completely sure why.

“Will, let go. Merlin will die if you don’t.” That seems to get through, and with what strength he has Will grunts and pushes against Merlin, tries to push him back in the chair. “Here, let me,” gently, as gently as he can he dislodges Will and sits him up against the side of the chair. His shirt is covered with blood, and the dagger, the dagger hilt is at a strange angle.

The shush of sliding fabric draws his attention and he’s around the chair, pushing Merlin back before his rear shoulders leave the wood. He doesn’t dare lift him up, so he ends up taking extra time sliding Merlin’s body in position, making sure every part is touching the chair exactly as he’s been placed every time he’s been in here. A regal king, asleep at his throne.

With nary a heartbeat.

He tries to check. He thinks he feels something flutter beneath his fingertips, but his own heart may be drowning out the truth. He’ll have to wait until Gaius can get here.

After double checking Merlin will stay put, he shifts around to Will. His eyes are nearly shut, and he’s listing to the right, one hand clutched on the dagger, the other reaching feebly towards Merlin. “Don’t pull it out,” he orders immediately. The dagger may be the only thing keeping the rest of Will’s blood inside. The angle, he sees, isn’t towards the heart. If it had punctured that he’d be dead. No, it’s at an angle on the other side of his chest. His breathing is wet, and blood is dribbling slowly out of his mouth.

He considers running to the door again, but instead turns his head towards it and screams, “We need help in here! I need healers! Someone, _get in here!_ ” A wet palm flops onto his, and Arthur immediately turns back to Will. He let go of the dagger, but the lids have raised a little on his eyes. His other hand has finally reached over, is touching the back of Merlin’s ankle. “Hold on. We’ll get the healers and you’ll be pissing off Sir Gwaine in no time.”

“Protect…”

More blood dribbles from his mouth and Arthur hisses before saying, “Don’t talk. Save your strength. You’ll be protecting Merlin again in no time.”

The bloodied hand squeezes his, or rather, tries to tighten around it. Blinking twice, Will looks Arthur in the eyes. “P-protect h-him. You.”

“I promise, I won’t hurt him.” He remembers what he yelled earlier in the day. “I didn’t…I don’t want him dead. I was angry, but…I won’t kill him. You don’t have to protect him from me. I’m sorry.” Will shakes his head and ends up spitting blood and other fluids all over Arthur’s lap. “Don’t do that!”

“You. Protect. Hi-im.” He’s glaring now, the half-lidded eyes working to his advantage. “You. Protect. For…”

Arthur understands. He’d known since the dagger had struck Will, but he’d hoped the spell on the door would’ve broken, that magic could do some good and heal the blasted peasant. The spell isn’t broken. Maybe spells of the High Priestess can’t be broken, or don’t end when the sorcerer dies.

It doesn’t matter now. There’s no way Will can survive without help, and there’s none coming. He lets the desperation, the confusion and frustration melt away from his tone as he says. “I will. I’ll protect him for you.” He’s done this before, given a dying knight his word, fulfilled their last wishes.

Will’s not a knight, but he deserves that honor.

“Promise.”

He squeezes the wet hand, the one that’s no longer even trying to hold his own, and says as regally as he can, “I, Arthur Pendragon, do swear to protect Merlin, on my honor and oath as a Knight.” He swallows back the ‘of Camelot’ part of the sentence.

He gets a slight nod in return, and then his eyes shut, breathing shallow, gurgling breaths. Before he can stop himself, Arthur blurts out, “Why?”

The half-decent huff he gets only causes more blood to spill from his mouth, and without opening his eyes he struggles to say, “Me-erlin…w-would…”

He flashes back to earlier again, Gwaine’s words, honoring Merlin’s decisions.

He doubts the knight meant this.

The hand touching Merlin’s shifts back and an inarticulate, wet, distressed sound escapes from Will’s throat. Arthur reaches above and after a moment’s hesitation, pulls on Merlin’s sleeve enough so that his arm falls over the edge of the chair. It ends up slapping Will’s face, which prompts an attempt at a smile from the dying man. He places Merlin’s limp hand so the palm and fingers are right on top of his head, buried in his hair.

Will keeps half smiling, until he doesn’t, until the blood on his breast isn’t quite so fresh and Arthur, Arthur keeps holding the red-stained hand.

And he’s still holding it long past nightfall, when the door finally bursts open.


	10. Chapter 10

It’s no surprise to see Lancelot come through first, sword drawn and moving as quickly as he can to cover Merlin. He stops short when he spots Arthur, then looks from Arthur, to the Trident-pinned sorcerer, to Will. His frown is quick, and Arthur knows in some ways this looks like he murdered two people. Possibly three, with the blood Will got on Merlin.

Gwaine jumps to that conclusion quickly, his strangled, betrayed shout the only warning Arthur has before the knight is charging him. Lancelot intercedes, places himself between Arthur and Gwaine.

“Get out of my way or I’ll bloody-“

“His protection is my duty. I won’t let him come to harm.” His voice is hard, and harsher than Arthur’s ever heard from the man before. “Not even from you.”

“He killed-“

“We don’t know what happened.” That he says more calmly, but keeps his rock solid tone. “Until then, he’s a guest.”

“If he did this I swear to the gods-“

“Is Merlin alright?” Balinor yells as he enters, not rushing to his son, but Arthur can tell he wants to. The gentle, welcoming look from his arrival is gone, and in its place is fire and steel. This is the Fisher King, not Balinor. A ruler with as much control and lethality as Uther or any other king. It’s what Arthur will have to someday become if he wants to be fit to rule.

It’s a day that’s soon to bear, just not at this moment. “We kept him on the chair as best we could,” he answers hollowly. “Will dislodged him a bit when he,” he takes a deep breath, “when he saved my life. I got him straightened as best I could, but I don’t…I can’t tell.” He doesn’t say it apologetically, or with any hint of begging. He’s a prince, he’s reporting to a king. It may not be his own, but Balinor will appreciate the formality.

“Good heavens!” Gaius rushes over. “Are you-“

“A little burned, but unhurt. Will’s gone.” Gwaine lets out an anguished groan, covering his face with his hands and stalking back and forth. Percival appears, trying to lead him from the room. It’s no surprise to Arthur he refuses to go. “If you could check on Merlin.”

“I,” he reaches down, before he steadies himself and says, “Of course, Sire.” It’s probably habit, but it grounds Arthur a little. He knows that voice, knows that tone.

The bald man, the one with the iron staff, comes in and takes in the room at a glance. When he spots the dead sorcerer, he frowns. “Edwin.”

Balinor turns to him immediately. “A prisoner?” There’s a touch of anger in his voice when he says, “Alator, this was not-“

“Not a prisoner, Sire.” Alator’s deference seems aloof to Arthur, but Balinor either doesn’t see it, or chooses not to call him on it right now. “Edwin Muirden. He’s been after the Pendragons, tried to join a while ago, but found us…lacking in regards to aiding his goals. He was last seen heading towards the Isle. We’ve been trying to track him since.”

The mention of the Isle causes Balinor to scowl. It soon turns upon him, and Arthur has to admit he’s impressed. Uther couldn’t have done better to make him feel contrite and small. “Was he after you, or Merlin?”

Arthur finally releases Will’s hand and slowly gets to his feet. Lancelot glances over his shoulder, but when Arthur doesn’t appear to move forward, he turns his attention back to the room, sword down but still unsheathed, watching Gwaine especially.

“He said he came looking for me, and the price to…help him get here, get me here, was Merlin’s life. He didn’t explain much more than that.”

Balinor stares at him, and this one feels deeper, more penetrating. Uther’s stares could see through him. Balinor’s feels like an ancient entity is looking not through him, but into him, into his very being. There’s no tell-tale gold in his eyes, but he’s not sure what a dragonlord’s power can do other than command dragons.

Gaius lets out a soft relieved breath. “He still lives,” he says straightening. “The throne is still keeping him alive.”

Balinor doesn’t relax, but some of the edge dims from his hard gaze. “Lancelot, take Arthur to my chambers.” This time, he eyes Arthur’s bloodied, burnt outfit. “A bath, I’m sure one of my knights can provide clothing.”

Arthur actually bows slightly at Balinor’s dismissal. Lancelot sheathes his sword, but moves to keep himself between Arthur and Gwaine, who’s gone to the corner of the room and is pounding the wall quietly. They take the stairs up slowly, until about half-way, when Lancelot moves ahead of him and turns around, placing his palm on Arthur’s chest. Arthur looks up, sees the conflict behind the knight’s eyes. He’d speak, but this is something Lancelot has to do. Not only in his duty as a knight, but as someone who’s placed his reputation on the line for Arthur.

“Swear to me it was Edwin’s hand that killed Will,” he finally says, quiet and firm.

“On my honor as a Knight, it was Edwin’s magic driving the blade. I was the target, and I could ether grab the Trident to use against the sorcerer, or try to escape the dagger. Will...made the decision for me.”

Lancelot studies him, like Balinor, before bowing his head. “Then I must ask your forgiveness. I promised no harm would come to you here. I thought the knights-“

“You couldn’t have known. I didn’t know. He disguised himself as a knight.” Lancelot still looks like he’d rather be yelled at. Instead, Arthur takes a step up and says, “I don’t blame you. I can’t. You and your knights have…they have upheld your oath, Lancelot.”

“Yet one sorcerer-“

“Yes.” He said that with finality. “One. Among the hundreds you have here. Good odds, given what my head must be worth to some.”

Lancelot blanches at his macabre honesty, but it’s enough to get him moving again, up to the same floor Merlin’s on. This time it’s another room, slightly more opulent hosting a larger bed with what appears to be soft sheets and a quilt. The hearth is larger, and there’s a table and a desk present, along with a wardrobe. Behind a screen he can see the edge of a bathtub. Lancelot gives him a sheepish look, then ducks back out the door to call for a magical servant.

Of course their tubs would be filled with water magically.

The same servant he saw when he arrived, a timid girl who introduces herself as Freya, curtsies and offers quietly to clean his armor. Without magic, she promises. After a quick glance to Lancelot, he agrees, and she turns utterly red and squeaks as he peels the chainmail off. It takes time, but she waits patiently, her neck becoming darker and darker as she hears him pile the armor on the table. He takes a moment to study her, the raven hair and pale skin. She could be Merlin’s sister, or at least a relative. Does the Fisher King have children other than Merlin? He hadn’t thought so…

Lancelot offers to help Freya bring the armor out of the room, and tells Arthur he’ll be right outside if he needs anything. When the door’s shut, Arthur stares at the water, just warm enough for steam to be coming off, before he shakes off his nerves and strips down. His feet hurt, like they’ve stepped through gravel, and examining the bottom of his boots reveals the fire burned away their soles. His fingers are red, but not blistering. They weren’t in the fire too long. The rest of his clothes…He put the fire out quickly enough, but it ate away enough of his outfit that, between the holes and the soot, it’s done for.

The tub, unsurprisingly, is just the right temperature, although he hisses at the way it agitates the damaged skin. Scrubbing away Will’s blood, he finally lets himself think about it, about what happened. He’s seen men die before. He’s talked them through it, and he knows how to tuck the anguish of the moment away. It always churns his stomach though when he sees Camelot’s people dead, the villages slaughtered by raiders, by careless wars. The innocents that don’t deserve it, those he and the army fail to protect. _In war,_ his father would say, _there are no innocents._

Arthur’s never crossed that line, save that one time he was too young to know, to stop it.

Most people who protect him in war do so because they’re knights, they’re allies, they’re on the battlefield knowing what’s at stake and willing to die for it.

Will dying like this, not a soldier, not even a friend, all because Merlin thought he was worth protecting... Half of the knights Uther sends him Arthur wouldn’t trust to watch his back in even a simple hunt. Aredian’s cowardly retreat at the first cry of the Questing Beast is proof that they aren’t even willing to die for the cause, much less Arthur.

His own knights, they’re good. But half of them are dead by that same damned Beast. That or its rider, the Black Knight. He glances towards the window, but it’s facing the wrong way to know if the forest fire is still going. He runs some water through his hair, sighing. They have died for him, and he will mourn them once this damned war is over.

Edwin is a reminder of what he’s fighting against.

Edwin, what he is, what he tried, is why his father has always called magic evil, dangerous, a scourge to be wiped out. Dozens of sorcerers just like the burned man have come after him or Uther in their own home, casting spells, screaming of grief, of justice. Uther says it’s the magic, it drives them mad. It has to be exterminated completely, like a blighted field, or else everything will rot away, destroyed by magic’s very existence.

If Merlin had—has even one-tenth of the power Edwin displayed, his sense of control, sense of honor, has to at least match the standard Arthur holds his own knights to. He doesn’t just lash out, striking down people left and right, doesn’t set fire to the field when they retreat to burn the stragglers. Even when that sorcerer, Gilli, died, he didn’t strike Valient dead with the lighting, didn’t let his anger and grief pour out to destroy them.

It’s not magic that’s the scourge, it’s the people. People his father has hurt, has hunted, has slaughtered. The sorcerers who came to kill them, all of them spoke of grief, revenge, because their families were burned or killed by his father’s order. The refugees are only here, fighting and dying, because his father demands this of his task for ascension.

His father is wrong.

His father is _wrong._

He’s thought it before, but never with such conviction, with absolute certainty. Edwin was evil, but Gaius certainly isn’t, nor Lancelot or anyone else he’s met as part of the Fisher King’s court. He’s been welcomed like a visiting noble, not a hostage of war. And he doesn’t want to fight them, doesn’t want to slaughter them all because his father is sure magic is the darkest art known to man.

He wishes he knew _why_ his father thought that. He knows the Great Purge, but doesn’t know what started it, what caused the war and the creation of this new Fisher King. He’s asked, and Uther had been very firm in rebuking him on the subject. There are no official records declaring why it happened, just the records of the declaration outlawing magic itself. And if magic was once in Camelot, if Balinor once lived there…

He’s certain he’s right, but he needs to know the fulcrum, what event started Uther down this path in the first place.

A knock on the door snaps him back to the present and he calls, “Enter,” as he stands, grabbing the nearest towel to rub down. The bathwater is a mix of blood and filth, but mainly stained red. He shakes his head and looks over the screen to see who’s there. The sharp intake of breath is completely involuntary.

Leon.

The knight is holding some plainclothes atop which rests a small tray. He’s not wearing his armor, nor is he armed with his sword, but Arthur spots a knife in his boots, and he takes extra time studying the face, the hair. The wrinkle of his forehead and the way he’s jutting out his chin is definitely the ‘worried’ face he’s come to know over the years. Still, after what’s just happened he’s hesitant to come out in such a vulnerable state.

Leon sets the pile on the table, lifts the tray to set aside, then tosses the underclothes and pants towards the screen. Arthur catches them, silently grateful, and quickly puts them on. It’s not armor, but he feels a little better not being exposed. He steps out behind the screen to grab the shirt, recognizes it as the one Leon usually wears out of combat beneath his armor. It’s from Camelot, and Leon handing it off is…he sighs, puts it on, and absently wraps the belt around his waist as he examines the tray. Some small slices of ham, two slices of bread, and a nub of cheese.

His stomach reminds him he hasn’t eaten since he broke fast this morning, so he takes a seat and picks at the food. Leon seems to be accepting the silence, but Arthur can’t stand it. “He looked like you.”

Leon startles at that. “Who?”

“Edwin. The sorcerer. He had a disguise that looked almost exactly like you. That’s how he convinced me to go up to the throne room.”

With a hint of confusion, Leon lowers himself into one of the chairs. “I don’t understand.”

“I hated you.” He doesn’t say it with vehemence anymore, nothing bitter or acerbic in his tone. “I hated you, and I hated how much I missed you, even though you were a traitor.” He breaks off a piece of cheese and wraps the ham around it as best he can before taking a bite.

He’s still chewing when Leon asks, “So why did you go with him?”

Arthur swallows and says with veiled anger, “I still trust you. I didn’t want to. But you saw how it was, us falling back into old habits. It was comfortable, especially here, in the heart of the enemy. You were a traitor, but part of me still trusted you to watch my back.”

“And when he came to you, disguised as me,” Leon crafts his phrase carefully, “you went with him because whatever it was he said, you knew out of everyone here I could be trusted.” There’s a buried note of hopeful pride in his voice. “Sire-“

Arthur interrupts him with a quiet, “Why did you join the Fisher King’s knights? Coming here with Morgana and staying I understand. Uther would have had you executed. I might have,” he admits, “in my anger.”

Leon turns his head away. “The scars on your back…”

“My First Knight and best friend betrayed me, the King, and Camelot.” He can’t keep his voice hushed when speaking of that, can’t help but let some of the rage sneak through; at Leon, at himself, at Uther. “We had to withdraw from battle and Uther intended to drive home the consequences of my error in judgement.”

The knight hangs his head, runs a hand over his face, before sitting back up. Arthur can see unshed tears, but by the terse way he’s holding his mouth shut and his brow is furrowed, can read the anguish, the outrage barely hidden. He has a feeling it’s directed at the same three targets as Arthur’s rage. A flicker of indecision, before Leon gains control of himself and says again, “I never meant for that to occur, Sire. Please, accept-“

“No.” Leon halts, swallows. “Did you hold the lash in your hand? Did you chain me to the ceiling? Did you ignore Gaius’ warnings of the welts?” It’s Arthur’s turn to hang his head. “I think I see now, Leon, that perhaps my father is…unreasonable, on certain subjects.” He grimaces. “I think…I can admit it now. I don’t think I could, then.”

Leon’s hand wrapping around his wrist surprises him, and he grabs it back by instinct, looking up. There’s unwavering loyalty in the gaze the knight is giving him. “Lancelot approached me, and I refused. I would not turn my blade against you, against Camelot. I could not. Balinor came next, and asked not to join, but to be visible with him and the knights, to end the fighting, stop Uther’s campaign. I agreed to that and nothing else.”

“Then why did you join?”

Leon searches his face, then admits, “Merlin. He can be an excellent listener—yes, there’s the ears, but he listens, and he asks questions. He makes you look at a bigger picture, to see things in a new light. He makes you think.” With his other hand, he places a fist over his heart. “I am a Knight of Camelot. I swore an oath to protect you and the land from any and all dangers; even if they come from within. This war, Uther has contracted mercenaries, is pursuing unwise allies.”

Arthur can’t help but raise his eyebrows at that. The last war council he’d sat in on, there were rumors of Uther seeking parley with the kingdom of Amata. Its king is one of the most treacherous, and every monarch knows to never ally with them. Apparently, the rumor has spread across the field into even the courts here. “You fought to protect Camelot,” he finally says.

Leon nods. “I tried not to harm our footmen, I never fought our knights unless they forced the issue.” Thinking back, it’s true. Leon, when wading into the fight, usually went after those knights bearing the standard of Mercia . “I could not fight by your side. I could fight against those that would use Camelot’s weakened defenses against them, fight the mercenaries before someone paid to have you killed.” He hesitates a moment before adding, “Fight against the injustices Uther has wrought.”

Arthur’s first instinct is to snatch his hand back, to snarl that his father is not the cause of any injustice. It’s an instinct he fights, fights and tells himself he has to _keep_ fighting because the proof is all around him. The proof was there in Camelot, he just refused to acknowledge it as anything more than his father’s temper, the needs of Camelot’s safety.

He’s been an idiot.

_Guess I have something else in common with the warlock_ , he laments internally.

With a grim nod, Arthur tests his grip against Leon’s, and they shake once. “You, who I called traitor, I now retract. I accept your oath, even if I cannot have you stand beside me.”

It’s as if a great weight lifts off Leon, he can see it physically depart his body as his muscles relax and a small smile crawls onto his face. “Thank you, Sire. I will do my best to abide by my oath, and serve you well.” He releases his grip on Arthur.

Arthur does the same and shakes his head. “You’ve served me well even when I would strike you dead. I don’t deserve your loyalty.”

“Maybe not, but you have earned it, even through this war.”

His stomach clenches, reminding him of the untouched food on his plate. He picks up the half-eaten cheese and ham, eating it quickly. He finishes eating before asking, “Speaking of,” he glances towards the door, “what are my chances of leaving alive?”

“Morgana is furious, mostly at Lancelot giving his oath. But her scrying magic should be strong enough to reveal what occurred in the room.” Leon chuckles. “Scrying magic. I never thought I’d say such a thing, much less to you.”

“It’s as strange for me, I assure you.” He picks up the piece of bread. “What if she can’t…prove it?”

Leon’s grin fades. “They may hand you over to Alator. He has some interrogation spell, painful, brutal. He can torment your mind and leave you untouched. As a prince and a guest at court, you should not be subject to such things.”

He tears the bread in half, unable to eat it. “You fear Lancelot may fail in his oath.”

“Balinor may not have much magic, but he commands a lot of people with it. If he believes it necessary, he’ll ask Lance to rescind his protection…or challenge him to force him to retract it.”

“The king said he isn’t a good swordsman.”

Before he can answer, Balinor enters the room. “Prince Arthur. It’s time we spoke.”


	11. Chapter 11

Without any words, Leon knows that he is not welcome in the room. He departs, and Arthur can see Lancelot dutifully standing beyond the doorway. It appears Leon is going to join him before the King shuts the door and they’re alone in his room. He’s still in the strange leather armor depicting a variant of the Pendragon crest, and the bloodied Golden Trident is in his hand. Arthur stands carefully, not making any sudden moves. The King eyes him up, then unsheathes his sword and sets it forcefully on the table.

It’s a beautiful sword, well-honed and he can tell from the worn grip it’s been Balinor’s companion for a long time. Despite not being needed, it’s as sharp as Arthur’s would be, and the fire from the hearth reflects off its shine. He’s not entirely sure what the move means, so he doesn’t touch it. If it is a challenge, it’s not one he wants to take up.

Ready to, yes. Able to? Certainly. Wants to? No. Not anymore.

“Take it,” The King says. “It is not fair that I be armed, while you stand defenseless.”

“A sword drawn is meant to be used, Sire.” He keeps his tone polite and deferring yet authoritative. The same tone he uses with his father when he doesn’t like the decisions being made, but can say nothing due to the court, or because Uther will not tolerate any dissension on the issue. “If I take the sword, you may challenge me, and I may be forced to use it. It is not something I wish to do.”

“Perhaps you fear I’ve enchanted it. To make you weak, to kill you?”

Arthur tilts his chin up. “I fear nothing of the sort. You’ve proven yourself an honorable Lord thus far. If you wished to kill me, you would challenge me openly.”

“You think you know me so well, after only a day?”

Arthur meets his stern glare. “I know your knights, Sire. I have heard the exploits of your son. I may not know you, but their actions speak of it.”

The king eyes him over before unbuckling his belt and tossing it, and the scabbard, to the table. With less of a challenge in his tone, he says, “Take the sword, Prince. It’s unfitting that I be armed and you not, and my honor will not abide by it.”

Though he wants to hold back, Arthur doesn’t allow for any hesitation as he takes the blade and the belt, sheaths the sword, and wraps it around his waist. Refusing it now would be to disrespect Balinor, and as a prince, his honor won’t allow that. Even for an enemy.

While he’s tightening the belt, the king inspects the water in the tub. “A lot of blood. William’s I suppose.”

Arthur fights the urge to duck his head. “I tried to stop the bleeding.”

There’s a moment of silence, before the King says, “Tell me, Arthur. The sorcerer lured you up, was willing to kill Merlin. Why didn’t you use William as a shield?”

“He’s not a knight, sir. He can’t be expected to fight.”

“He would defend Merlin to the end.”

“And he would’ve died. Needlessly. I tried to stop that from happening.” He swallows. “I failed, but not for lack of trying.”

“Hrm. I suppose Leon’s told you that our scryers can find the truth.”

“He has.”

“What if I told you the throne room has wards for that, that even scrying for events in the room, while standing within it, is impossible?”

“Then you have my word, as a Knight of Camelot, as a Prince, and as an honorable man.”

“You’re an enemy.”

“You don’t treat me like one.”

“Merlin’s death would almost guarantee victory. The winds that have kept your men back, that was all him.” He nods to the window. “It’s taking almost all of our most powerful sorcerers to keep the fire contained, to block the Black Knight’s entry into this land. Your own army isn’t making it any easier.”

It certainly explained why the court had so few people, why the tower and the places still existing within the walls were apparently empty. “He saved my life. I can’t repay that debt by ending his.”

“So it’s merely a debt?” Balinor waves his hand. “I forgive you the debt on his behalf. If I had told you that when you arrived, would you have let Merlin die?”

Arthur clenches his fists and declares, “No.”

“He’s your enemy. You’ve fought to kill him for weeks now.”

There is a part of him, the part that sounds like Uther’s voice, screaming, _Traitor, Traitor!_ as he admits, “He is no enemy of mine.” It takes the king by surprise, and for a moment, he sees Balinor, the man. The mask is back in place swiftly, that penetrating stare aimed at him once again. Forging forward, he admits, “I have spent two days here, and in that time I have been…yelled at, welcomed, condemned, complimented…” One of his hands closes around the hilt of the sword, and he uses it to ground himself, to get this right. “I can’t not believe what I’ve been told, not when I have…I know the corroborating evidence firsthand. Camelot is…Camelot is in the wrong. I may not be able to make my father stand down, but I no longer consider your kingdom an enemy.” Not meaning to, he whispers, “I can’t.”

Silence is all he gets for one minute, two, he’s up to three and starting to curse himself for not being more eloquent when the royal mask slides away leaving a weary Balinor. “How I wish,” he says kindly, “that those words could end our fighting.” He walks over and takes a seat at the desk, turning the chair around to face Arthur.

Arthur takes the hint and pulls out a chair from the table, turning it so that he can face Balinor as well. There’s no table, no other furniture, just open air between them. “I know Camelot is the aggressor. If I could negotiate a truce, I would.” He grimaces. “I fear my father would believe me enchanted, and return with even more forces.”

Balinor nods. “Your father can be-“

“Bloody minded.”

That earns him a small smile. Looking up at the Trident, Balinor turns to lean it against the desk. “Though the throne room is warded,” he starts, before turning back around to face him, “my room is not. I’m afraid I overheard your conversation with Leon.”

Arthur forces down the anger at the intrusion. “Given the circumstances, I suppose I can understand.”

“No one is watching this, I made sure of it.” Balinor claps his hands between his knees. “Will was Merlin’s friend since childhood, longer than anyone else. He was his friend, his protector, his confidant for many years, until he had to, like you, take up his role. Will was…changed for that. Merlin always has so much kindness to offer everyone. Will came to…treasure his time, horde as much of it as he could. I’ll miss the way he turned red when I interrupted their discussions.”

“We may not have gotten along,” Arthur offers, “and we may not have left things…on good terms. But I know my duty. I tried to protect him. He…I knew, if I died, so would he, and Merlin. He may have protected me, but I think…I know he did it for Merlin.”

“Should Merlin ever recover, he’ll be crushed.” Balinor sighs, then sits up. “You may wonder why a magic user in my realm tried to kill you. You have to understand-“

“Not all magic is allied with you.” He instinctively flinches. “Sorry, sir.”

“No, no. I suppose Gaius or Lancelot mentioned it.”

“Gaius, my first night here. I thought the Questing Beast was summoned by you.”

“Not surprising, given your upbringing.” He holds up his hand. “No disrespect intended.” Arthur acknowledges that with a nod. “There are some, such as Morgause, who would see you dead. She once wanted to lead an undead army into your keep and slaughter you while you slept. Merlin talked her out of it, Morgana keeps doing the same.”

He vaguely recalled that name. “Essitir. But they’re your allies.”

“They’re friendly,” Balinor counters. “They fear my son, what he might do should she go through with it. They know I have no quarrel with Camelot, only her King.” He shakes his head slowly. “Others despise me simply because I unwove Fate. I went to the Crystal Cave in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, the birthplace of magic. I saw what would happen, if the Purge was left to scour the land.” The look he gives Arthur is haunted. “Thousands, Arthur. I saw thousands die. Not just from the Purge, from the aftermath, from the dearth of magic and the rage that would follow.”

He holds up his hand, curls it as if he’s holding something. “I stole the Crystal of Neahtid from Camelot, forced…I made the dragon unlock its powers to me, unwove what was to be and rewrote Destiny. Those fighting here, fighting by my side, they don’t care, they’re just grateful for the sanctuary. But the High Priests and Priestesses…” He sighs.

“Emrys, the one who would return magic to the land, his Destiny, and that of the Once and Future King, was set. But the road there, the outcome, was no longer certain. The followers of the Old Religion depended on those prophecies, it was all that brought them hope at times. And then I tore that apart, I did what is considered one of the greatest sacrileges of all time.” He smiles bitterly. “And thus, I became the Fisher King. Some could accept it, wished to help forge the new Destiny in the making. Others...”

He trails off, and Arthur doesn’t need to fill it in. The others swore to fight him, or swore their own revenge on Camelot afraid or spiteful of Balinor’s efforts. All of that pales, though, with the knowledge that the man before him had the power to rewrite Destinies. He could have undone the Great Purge, or destroyed Uther, destroyed Camelot. Destiny was supposed to be immutable and a power no one could possess. Here was a man who had that power in his hand, and all he did was create a safe haven for those persecuted.

By Uther.

For all that he’s been humbled, by a more experienced knight, by his tutors, by his father…this makes Arthur feel small, even unworthy to be here. He can admit that, with that sort of power in his hand, he’s not sure he could’ve been so benevolent, so restrained. He would want to lash out and protect his people, remove the threat entirely and bring about prosperity. Would he stop with his own kingdom? What of his allies? What of his enemies, potential enemies? Who’s to say he wouldn’t go mad with that power, turn into the very evil he’s fought against his entire life?

He swallows. “S-so,” he tries to get his mind back together, to go back to the conversation. “So, the Questing Beast was sent by someone…someone who wished to kill me, to hurt my father.”

Balinor stares at his hand another second before lowering it and coming back to the moment. “Yes. I suspect the same person who created the Black Knight and provided Edwin the means to sneak past our wards.”

“Someone on an Isle.”

Balinor nods solemnly. “A holy site, one of the holiest, for the Priestesses of the Old Religion. There’s one there, forever young, whose hatred for Uther, you, and Camelot, supersedes all others. She despises me, and my son.”

He can hear the unspoken conditional in his words. “You can’t stop her.”

“She lives on the Isle. She controls who’s welcome and who isn’t. Merlin could breach that spell, so could my dragon. Merlin hasn’t felt he’s strong enough, yet. And I…well, the magic of the Dragon supports this land, as do I. Should we ever leave, everything we’ve worked for would begin to fall apart. And my people? My people would have nothing.”

“They’d have your army, your knights.”

Balinor nods lightly. “Maybe. I wasn’t lying earlier, when I said it was taking many of our sorcerers to keep our enemies from closing. The fire is almost burned out, and though we can keep your army at bay, the Black Knight is magic, his armor is enchanted. It’s believed he will break through soon.”

Arthur sits up. “Then I’ll face him.”

“You’ll lose.”

He bristles at that. “I am the best-“

“He’s undead. You can’t kill him. He can’t burn, he can’t bleed.” He looks Arthur in the eye. “Merlin saved you for a reason. Maybe he didn’t want to see you fail against odds you can’t fight. Maybe he saw in you a chance for peace.” With a quirk of his lips, he adds, “Maybe he’s just an idiot.” Arthur smirks a bit at that. “For whatever reason, he wanted to save you. In his honor, we’re doing the same. To that end I can’t let you go out and walk to your death. Not until we have a way for you to fight him. Kill him.”

Arthur can’t really argue with that. “But what’s to stop the Priestess from summoning another? Of calling an army? Or this Morgause from following through now that Merlin-“

“You see where I am. Merlin may be small, but his presence has a great impact on the magical world. We’ve always fought to survive, not for revenge, just for a chance to live our lives. We know not everyone in Camelot thinks like Uther, and some of us remember when Camelot’s sorcerers’ were the talk of the Five Kingdoms.”

“And you hope to restore that.”

“One day, when Uther passes the veil, or if we find a way to sue for peace. I’m sad to say, I know which will most likely come first.”

“You don’t wish him dead?”

Balinor closes his eyes. “Every day,” he admits, anguished. “For what he’s caused, for what he continues to do.” When he opens his eyes, it’s with self-loathing. “Then I remember, he’s a father. He has family. He has subjects who depend on him, a Kingdom that could be torn apart without a leader.” He looks towards the hearth. “I may wish him dead, Arthur, but I more than anyone know the price, both of the magic and the outcome.”

Arthur purses his lips. “When I am king,” Balinor looks back towards him, “I swear I will make peace between our lands. I will stop the persecutions.” The smile Balinor gives him is hollow, forced, and Arthur knows it means the man doesn’t think it’ll be possible. It will, though, Arthur intends to ensure it happens. “I should admit,” he adds, “I made a last promise to Will before he died.”

The smile turns more genuine, slightly wistful. “I think I can guess.”

Arthur thought he might. “If you ask, I shall keep guard over the room.”

“Honorable, but I think I’ll restrain myself from issuing such a request.” His look turns speculative. “You gave your oath, though? To a peasant?”

“He died protecting me, even if it was just to save Merlin. Anyone, especially an enemy, who would go to such lengths has earned the right to ask an oath, if it’s one I can give.”

“Doesn’t it betray your oath to Camelot?”

Arthur sits back and looks over Balinor’s shoulder to the wall. “I am not sure Camelot’s oaths can be foresworn in good conscious. What I’ve heard…”

The grimace is knowing and bereaved. “For what it’s worth, your father wasn’t always like this. Sometimes I think his crusade is the price Destiny is exacting for my hubris.”

Arthur considers that. “Except you became the Fisher King after the Great Purge began.” Arthur scowls. “No, my father’s actions are my father’s. You did what you thought was best.”

“I did. The price I’ll pay…” He looks to the Trident again. “It’s late. Merlin’s room has been cleaned from last night.” He stands, and Arthur stands with him. “Tomorrow I meet with my advisors. Morgana has agreed to attend, use her scrying to try and find a way to kill the Black Knight. We also must decide about the war effort. Without Merlin,” he frowns, “it may become very costly, and-“

“Once the Black Knight is dealt with I’ll return to my camp. I’ll find a way to minimize the carnage, and I promise to try and end this. The war, the fighting.”

Another haunting, false smile. “I thank you Arthur.” When Arthur’s hands go to his belt, he shakes his head. “No, keep it. A knight should be armed.”

Taking it off, he places it on the table. “I have Lancelot and Leon. I will not raise a blade except in defense, and that is their duty, not mine, while I remain a guest.” The warrior in him is screaming, about being defenseless especially after today, but he feels it’s important. Balinor has shown his trust, has treated him as a guest. Arthur wants to show that he trusts Balinor and his people to not harm him.

Balinor touches the sheath and runs his fingers up it absently. “She may send another.”

With a smirk, he says, “I doubt I’ll be alone any time soon.”

Balinor taps his fingers twice, then acquiesces. “If you change your mind, it will be here.”

“Thank you, Your Highness.”

“And thank you, Sire, for protecting my son.”

Arthur nods and waits until Balinor has waved his dismissal before opening the door. As expected, Lancelot and Leon are both there. He glances at both of them, and heaves out a breath while saying, “I don’t suppose either of you would allow me a night’s rest alone?”

“Freya has already fetched extra bedding,” Lancelot says. “It’d be a shame to wake her, make her remove it all now.”

“Gave my room to Gwaine,” Leon says. “Think he needs some time to himself. Percy’s checking on him, but I need a place to sleep, so…”

Shaking his head, he starts walking towards Merlin’s bedchamber. “I suppose I should be happy Morgana isn’t bedding down there as well.” When he opens the door, he finds the woman already lying on the mattress in a dressing gown and robe, a book in her hand and a smile on her face.

“You knew,” he mutters to Leon, who shrugs.

“Freya brought an extra blanket, I know how you like to hog them all to yourself.” Morgana’s smirk is knowing, but he can see the relief in her eyes that he’s standing there. She gets up and heads towards the door, stopping long enough to hug Arthur. “I just got you back. Try not to get trapped by any other mad sorcerers after you.”

Arthur reciprocates the hug, squeezing maybe a bit too tightly at the fact that he can. “You staying in as well?”

“With three men? Hardly. Hunith has offered me her chambers. I’ll be just down the hall.” She eyes him over, before finally giving him a peck on the cheek and gliding out the door.

Shaking his head again, he looks over to the bedtable and finds, yes, a handful of sweetmeats. “Well, if we’re all going to be here, I suppose we’d better set up a watch.” He holds up a finger to both of them as they open their mouths. “Not a word. You want to protect me, fine. But I’m a knight too, and I won’t ask of you what I’m not willing to do myself.”

They exchange a glance at each other, shrug, and then both demand he take the shift before dawn.


	12. Chapter 12

True to their word, Lancelot shakes him at least two hours before the sun rises. He glares blearily at the knight before giving up the bed to him. Not that he takes it, he just curls up on his own bedroll, draws the blanket over his head, and falls to sleep. Arthur would snort, but he doesn’t want to disturb him, or Leon. He spies a new pair of boots at the foot of the bed, and they look his size, so he slips them on. A little stiff, but scuffed enough he figures they belong to one of the knights who hasn’t had a proper time to break them in.

Stretching a little, he shifts over to the door and leans against the wall, debating what to do. Balinor will be in council all day, in the hopes of finding a way to save him from another sorcerer’s vile creation. Those are resources he could use on the war front, on aiding his people. It doesn’t feel right, the king taking on this responsibility because his son was an idiot and saved him.

He wonders if Merlin knew this would happen, that his wishes would go on even in death. Near-death. Then again, he probably didn’t intend to get the venom in his system, which means he was just trying to save his life, and the rest is all because Arthur, like an idiot, had to save the warlock who’d saved him.

Not that he’s saved him. Or, from the sounds of things, himself, in the long-run. If Balinor can’t find a way to stop the Black Knight, then Arthur will just have to face him. He’d rather die than let the one refuge for those persecuted by Uther fall because they put all their energies into protecting him.

Not that he knows how to tell them that without sounding ungrateful.

He tilts his head against the wall. He’d feel better if he were contributing something, if he could somehow…save Merlin. That, at least, would be repayment for all that they’re doing for him. Except, even if there was a cure, Arthur certainly doesn’t know where to begin researching such information, Gaius perhaps. Except Gaius is the one who found there was no cure.

_‘That’s not entirely true.’_

He jumps, hand reaching for a sword that’s not there. He looks around the dimly lit room, wishing he’d thought to stoke the hearth so that he had more light to go by. From what he can tell, there’s no one but him and the two knights. But he’d heard it. A voice, a man’s voice smooth and arrogant that seemed to echo ever so slightly in the dark.

“Who’s there,” he hisses.

_‘Oh, I’m not there, princeling. I just caught your thoughts and felt compelled to correct you.’_

“My thoughts,” he’s bewildered for a moment, then more darkly. “ _My_ thoughts?!”

_‘They’re usually a bit more dense and conflicted, you aren’t able to hear me. But it seems the twilight hours allows you to clear your mind.’_

“You’ve been reading my mind?!”

_‘Not really. There are so many minds here, Prince, that it’s all just noise. Except now. Only a handful of thoughts and yours, well…you think so much for a prince. Reminds me of someone I know.’_

“Who are you,” he bites out quietly, feeling his fists clench and unclench. He wants a sword, but what good is that against an enemy that can invade your mind? After what happened yesterday this makes him feel too vulnerable, to exposed. He wants to treat this as a threat that needs to be ended.

_‘Oh, you’d need much more than a sword. But, if I’ve so offended you, I’d be glad to continue this face-to-face.’_

“So you can kill me, like Edwin tried to?”

There’s a faint chuckle. _‘I don’t wish to harm you. You want to help Merlin, and I can tell you how. The real question is are you willing to face me to learn it? There will be a price. There’s always a price.’_

Arthur bears his teeth. “How do I know you’re telling the truth.”

 _‘You don’t.’_ There’s a smug satisfied tone at that remark. _‘I can guarantee you this. Balinor has promised no harm shall come to you from a denizen of his kingdom. I am bound by that promise.’_

“And reading my mind isn’t harmful?”

_‘Only if I were to use it against you, or I were to face your army. I’ll do neither, and so it’s not harmful.’_

He growls, but seriously considers the offer. He glances form Lancelot to Leon. Both are still sound asleep, he’s kept his voice down arguing with the mental stranger. He could sneak out. They’d kill him, but he could.

He could also wake them. “Can I bring my knights?”

_‘Let the poor men rest. Neither have been sleeping too well since the warlock fell ill. However, if it makes you feel more secure, the knight, Percival, is awake and in the stairwell. He’s welcome to escort you, observe us.’_

“How magnanimous of you.”

This time, it’s an echo of a sharp laugh, brazen and careless. _‘If you go to the back of the tower grounds, just beyond the wall, you will find me.’_

Nodding even though whoever it is can’t see him, Arthur silently opens the door just enough to slip out of the room. One floor down he discovers the voice was telling the truth, Percival stands just beside the doorway into the hall leading to the throne room.

The man startles, looks directly at him with a touch of surprise and not a little suspicion. “Sire.” The flickering shadows of the fires in the wall sconces make him look larger, more intimidating.

Arthur tilts his head towards the stairs. “I’ve been invited to a discussion and need an escort. Would you mind?” The man turns his head towards the throne room, before rolling his shoulders in that familiar shrug. Arthur continues down, Percival just a step behind him. “It may be a trap,” he whispers. “A voice spoke in my head, said there’s cure for Merlin.”

He catches the larger man scowl from the corner of his eye. “There is no cure.”

“Whoever this is insists that’s not true.”

There’s a low rumbling noise, and he actually looks over his shoulder in surprise when he realizes it’s Percival. The man has one hand on the hilt of his sword, clenching it tightly. “If his words are false, there’ll be consequences.”

It’s a promise, and Arthur most emphatically agrees. They continue in silence, easily ducking the few guards keeping post. At his questioning look, Percival explains, “There’s a warding spell. The tower can’t be entered unless already welcome. No stranger can enter. Sorcerers rotate each night.” Looking to the floor, he adds, “Merlin used to do it all himself.”

So the guards are there in case one of the allies turn out to be enemies. The main doorway to the outside is shut, but with Percival’s strength they’re able to shove open one of the heavy wooden doors and sneak out into the early morning. The moon is near the horizon, but it’s full, and bright enough that they almost don’t need Percival’s candle. Almost.

He’s halfway around the tower when he realizes they’re being followed. A glance to his companion, who nods, tells him they’re in agreement. Without any warning, the stop and turn as one, Percival drawing his sword, Arthur stepping behind the larger man’s shoulders.

He’s definitely not expecting Gwaine to appear around the bend, scowling at being caught, but continuing his movement until he’s a mere sword’s draw away from them. “Sneaking out?” There’s a touch of the humor that had been there yesterday afternoon, but a lot more suspicion and, as his eyes shift to Percival, betrayal.

The knight lowers his sword, but doesn’t sheath it. Arthur notes that Gwiane brought his own blade, but neither of his hands are close to it. Not that he needs them. And Arthur’s willing to bet that after what happened with Will, the man is itching to hit something. Or someone.

Namely him.

“Someone invited me out,” Arthur explains, dialing back the usual authority he infuses into his tone. “Percival is escorting me, in case it’s another trap.”

Gwaine’s eyes rove from him to Percival and back, before letting out a huff through his nose. “Well, can’t say you aren’t an idiot, Pendragon, but you’re not completely stupid.”

With a snort, he says, “You really can’t talk to me that way.”

“Someone needs to keep your head from bloating.” He waves ahead of them. “Lead the way. Let’s see who’s dumb enough to invite you out after what happened yesterday. It’s like they’re asking to get skewered.”

Arthur can’t really disagree. Percival slides his sword away and Gwaine falls into step with them. After a minute, the smaller knight nudges him with his elbow, and Arthur glances over. The man’s eyes are bloodshot and swollen, and he looks like he hasn’t slept a wink since Arthur last saw him. As Gwaine opens his mouth, Arthur interrupts him with, “I’m sorry for your loss.” The knight’s jaw snaps shut. “I really did try to save him. He just…wanted to save Merlin more.”

“Yeah.” He rubs a hand over his face while Percival looks on warily. “Yeah, I finally figured that out.” At the raised eyebrow Arthur gives him, he rolls his eyes. “Okay, so Balinor talked to me. Still, he’s a jerk. Leaving me to put Merlin back together when he wakes up. Never thinks things through.” He looks to the ground, then takes a deep breath. “Apologies for the accusation, Sire.”

The honorific doesn’t sound sincere, but the apology does, so Arthur says, “Accepted, Sir Gwaine.” He makes sure to infuse as much disrespect as he can on the title, and it seems to be the right thing to do as Gwaine smirks, looking just a touch like he did yesterday.

It’s not much longer before they’re around the wall at the back of the tower. There’s about forty feet of land, and then the stony outcropping that the tower is built on plunges deeply into the valley behind it. The shadow of the tower and the angle of the moon means that it’s pure dark all the way down, and with Percival’s candle they can barely see it.

He can feel himself getting angry and yells, “Well, where are you?!”

From the darkness he hears, “Right here.” And then there’s a rush of air and all three of them startle as a gigantic form flies up suddenly over the edge and lands with the weighted sound of scratching rocks. Both knights have drawn their swords and Arthur’s still trying to process what just happened when the creature rises up a thin neck and large, golden eyes peer at him from a lizard like head.

A dragon.

It’s a _dragon._

No, it’s _the_ dragon. Balinor’s dragon.

“So pleased to meet you, princeling.” Comes from the mouth of beast, sounding exactly as smug and amused as the voice in his head had been. It rolls and rattles in both a familiar and alien way through his ears, and he steps back, trying to take in the whole thing.

Enormous doesn’t even begin to cover it. He thought the Questing Beast was large, but the dragon appears to be an entire category above that. In the moonlight he appears to be a washed out red, with hints of iridescence probably only visible in the light. His eyes seem to glow the same color as a sorcerer’s when casting magic, and the way his forehead crests in a ‘V’ to divide them gives the creature a sly look about him. As it spoke it revealed a hint of razor-sharp teeth at least as long as a broadsword, curved and vicious as any wolf’s, undoubtedly.

He only caught a glimpse of the wingspan as it flew up, but they’re folded now against his back and the sides of his body. There appear to be thick, round claws the size of an arm at the end of each articulation of the wings that are very unlike the claws on the feet. On the feet, those are narrower, sharper, and remind him more of a falcon or hawk’s talons, ready to tear their prey apart easily. Unlike a bird, though, the long fingers don’t connect to a spindly leg, but to a thick trunk easily as big as Percival, with joints that seem to almost match his own: a wrist, an elbow, a shoulder.

There’s a hint of a tail, falling over the edge of the precipice, and along its ridge are long sharp spines that curl back. They seem to travel up along the spine and morph into blunted, shorter spikes all the way up the neck to the crest of the head. He wonders if they’re defensive, or if the tail is used to spear prey upon it. They’re certainly long enough to puncture through a human and drag the victim along.

“I would never,” the dragon says harshly, narrowing his eyes at Arthur. “And you, knights. Do you think your swords would do any good here?” One of the forelegs raises and almost seems to wave at them. “Put those away before you hurt someone.” The chastisement sounds almost exactly like Gaius would, and he smiles as the knights look befuddled, but slowly lower their weapons. “Now then, I suppose formal introductions are needed.”

The neck lowers until the head is almost level with Arthur. From chin to forehead it’s almost as tall as him. He feels himself tense up, ready to leap back—not that it would do any good avoiding a plume of flame—when the dragon continues with, “My name is Kilgharrah, fortunately not the last of my kind. Though your father nearly succeeded.”

Arthur swallows, but tilts his chin up and asks, “Is that why you helped Balinor change Destiny? To save your kind?”

The knights look stunned at his pronouncement. Apparently, that wasn’t common knowledge. The dragon, however, chuckles. “Destiny is not to be tampered with so lightly. Though I appreciate the benefit, I knew what was to come. I was prepared to mourn for my kind, for all of magic.” The head pulls back a bit. “Balinor said I went mad, in that world. That I took my rage out on Camelot and killed many of your knights.”

Arthur clenches his fists. “Then I guess I should be grateful.”

One of the wings seem to stretch briefly, and it takes a few minutes for Arthur to interpret the action as the dragon’s version of a shrug. “Uther’s war has led them to their deaths just as much as I would have. It seems they were never fated to live long lives.”

He hates the callous way the dragon says it, the blatant disregard for his men’s lives. He also hates that he can’t disagree, because he led those knights to their deaths; and whether it was facing a prolonged, meaningless war or a futile battle against a dragon the end result is still the same. “If you couldn’t change everything, why did you help Balinor?”

The entire head turns, so only one half-lidded eye is examining him. “He is a dragonlord, princeling. Surely you know what that entails.”

“He can command you.”

“That’s correct. Balinor commanded, and I obeyed.” One claw reaches up to scratch at its neck. “I have to admit, I was surprised at how he went about it. But it appears our discussions on Destiny and what may change were taken to heart.”

“Wait,” Arthur’s eyes narrow. “You said you knew of a way to fix Merlin. He’s a dragonlord. Why didn’t he command you to tell him?”

“There’s only two answers, Young Pendragon. The first is that I lied to my master. The second…”

Gwaine gets it first. “You told him.”

The dragon nods, like an elderly tutor proud of his pupil. “Very good, Sir Gwaine.”

Apparently that’s the wrong answer, because Gwaine spits out, “You’re lying! If Balinor knew how, he would awaken Merlin!”

Unaffected by his anger, Kilgharrah says, “That’s not quite true.” He looks Arthur in the eyes. “He would forbid me revealing the method, if he knew we were speaking.” His head lowers again until they’re eyelevel and Arthur can feel the beast’s hot breath billowing against his entire being. “Are you sure you want to know, young Pendragon? Once you do, you may find you wish you didn’t.”

“He does,” Gwaine yells.

Kilghraah ignores the knight, and Arthur stays silent, thinking, sizing up the dragon sizing him up. Finally he nods once, slowly, exaggerated. “Tell me.”

There’s a puff of hot air, one that nearly blows Arthur off his feet, but then the dragon’s maw is farther away, once again looking down on them. “As you wish.” He waves at the two knights. “They may stay nearby, but these words are not for their ears.”

“Why the bloody-“

“Gwaine,” Percival says, voice heavy. “C’mon.”

“Why should we?”

The larger knight looks to his friend. “Because Arthur won’t be told the cure otherwise.”

Scowling, Gwaine mutters and stomps off, heading to the edge of the wall and just out of listening distance. Percival squeezes his shoulder, then goes to join him. Arthur watches as they stand on guard, ready to rush in if the dragon turns hostile.

When Arthur turns around, the beast is smiling. “Are you ready? It’s not a nice revelation.”

“Meaning what,” he asks warily.

“The way to save Merlin is one your father knows well.” With the sharp teeth showing in a grin, the dragon taunts, “After all, it’s what started the Great Purge.”


	13. Chapter 13

For a minute Arthur is stunned. He’s already deduced magic was once in Camelot, but for the dragon to accuse Uther of…of _consorting_ with it, much less _using_ it…  It’s unthinkable. It’s unbelievable. He opens his mouth to yell at the damned beast before his mind catches up with his emotions and he bites his tongue. Literally, in the end, and he flinches at the pain before swallowing his anger, his own accusations of _Lies!_ and _Slander!_ and _Be silent!_ fighting to get out.

Kilgharrah just watches him, seeming to be quite content to let him face his internal struggle for however long he needs. The smirk along his mouth grows the longer it takes, which only makes Arthur more determined to hear this out. Lies or not, it’s a way to help Merlin, to repay his debt and satisfy his own honor.

Barely keeping the anger restrained, he bites out, “I don’t understand.”

“Haven’t you ever been curious as to _why_ Uther started the Great Purge?”

He doesn’t bother to hide his frustration when he says, “Constantly.”

The dragon tilts his head, looking infinitely sad for a moment. “This will be difficult to hear, princeling.”

Fists clenched, he admits, “It already is.”

That earns him a respectful nod. “That it is.” There’s a breath of hot air just over his head, as if he were sighing. “When Uther settled the lands and Camelot was at peace, he and your mother, Ygraine, began to focus on conceiving an heir. While he married for love, it turned out that she, unfortunately, was not suited to fulfill her duties as queen. She seemed to be barren.”

Arthur inhales sharply, the anger in his chest turning hot and bellowing to be let out. He tamps it down. He doesn’t know what this has to do with Merlin, but the chance to hear the origins of the Great Purge is too important to throw away on pride.

“When medicines failed,” Kilgharrah continues solemnly, “Uther turned to a High Priestess of the Old Religion, a woman named Nimueh. She promised to cure Ygraine of her barren womb, and that she would conceive a strong child, one who would be a worthy heir.” He looks Arthur in the eye. “You know what happened.”

“She died,” he forces out, “giving birth.”

“Nimueh claimed that her death was unforeseen, that it must have been a complication of the birth. Uther decried that as lies and treason, and began the Great Purge to avenge his wife’s death at magic’s hands.”

It sounds too plausible to be a lie. He’s seen his father turn on councilors and tradesmen who he feels has cheated or betrayed him. He’d do the same to any kingdom that showed itself false in its allegiance to Camelot. Still, something stands out in the dragon’s speech. “Nimueh, you said she _claimed_ my mother’s death was unforeseen.” He narrows his eyes. “Did she know? Did she know my mother would die?”

“She’s the reigning High Priestess of the Old Religion. She more than anyone else would know that one cannot simply create life. There is always a price for such magic: a life for a life.” He gives Arthur a pointed stare. “She knew. She did not disclose this to Uther or Ygraine.”

He turns and stomps back a few steps, only to pivot on his heel and stomp right back and point at the dragon. “You—why would you tell me this?! What has this got to do with saving Merlin?! Why would you say my father knew the cure because my mother died—“ He stops suddenly, jaw clicking shut. He swallows, then croaks out, “A life for a life.”

When he turns around this time, he stares back at the outlines of Gwaine and Percival, shadows being slowly illuminated as light begins to filter over the horizon. He runs a hand through his hair once, twice, before turning back around and facing Kilgharrah. “You told Balinor this. He’s…surely he’d give his own life for his son’s.”

“And yet he’s claimed there is no cure. Tell me, princeling,” he lowers his head and says firmly, “what could stop a father from protecting his son?”

He feels his heart beating faster when he replies, “Honoring the son’s wishes, even if it means his life.” He looks to the ground. “It can’t just be a life. It has to be my life.”

The large head bobs slightly. “The Questing Beast was sent for you, and so only your life can relinquish the hold death has on him.”

He thinks for a minute. Merlin sacrificed his life for him, Balinor is potentially sacrificing the safety of this refuge. Even if he does nothing, the Perilous Lands may get overrun, or worse, one of the other sorcerers would go through with their plans and march on Camelot.

He can’t let the people here die, or the people of his home. It’s too much needless death, all because of some skinny idiot and his idea that Arthur is worth saving.  He’s not, not if it means the murder of hundreds, maybe thousands of others.

Clarity washes over him in that moment, and he understands what Balinor must have felt all the years ago, discovering so much death if he stood by and did nothing. Balinor didn’t stand by, and neither will he. When he raises his head, he meets Kilgharrah’s gaze with his most authoritative one and commands, “Tell me what needs to be done to save Merlin.”

The beast doesn’t look smug or satisfied that Arthur is willing to sacrifice his life. “You would throw his sacrifice away.”

“I owe a debt, and I won’t let his sacrifice lead to the death of so many. Tell me, Kilgharrah.”

His head tilts to the side, being cast in a strange shadow as the sun peaks over the edge of the world. “Very well, young Pendragon. You must travel to the Isle of the Blessed and strike a deal with Nimueh for Merlin’s life, after which you’ll have to drink from the Cup of Life and that,” he finishes, “will be the end of you.”

“How do I know Nimueh will keep her word? She betrayed my father-“

“As it’s the venom of the Questing Beast, she can’t transfer the death upon anyone but its chosen prey. And in a choice between you and Merlin…” He shakes his head. “Her hate for you far outweighs her hate for Merlin. She would rather see you dead and Uther suffer at the loss.”

He’ll have to trust the dragon on this. “How do I find this Isle of the Blessed?”

The head lowers again, close enough for him to touch the giant nostrils. When Kilgharrah inhales, the golden eyes seem to spark, and the hot breath that washes over him seems to shine. He stumbles back after and catches the two knights running towards him. His head is ringing, but he shakes it off as quickly as he can. There’s a map in his mind, the way to the Isle. He blinks up towards the dragon. “Thank you.”

“I’ve done nothing but imparted the knowledge I gave the King,” he says smoothly as Percival grabs his shoulder and Gwaine skids to a stop slightly in front of him. Their swords aren’t out, but they’re obviously worried. “I will say this: the throne may keep him alive, but the window for this to work closes. The sooner you complete your quest, the better.”

Arthur nods in understanding. “You’ll have Merlin back soon enough.”

“I must admit to missing his persistent questions and tirades on the ridiculous components of magic,” Kilgharrah says wistfully, before adding, “I wish we could know each other better, young Pendragon. Destiny, unfortunately, is leading us down divergent paths.” With that, the wings expand just as the sun shines directly behind the dragon, and with a gust of wind that pushes the three of them back, the beast is airborne and gone just as swiftly as he’d arrived.

Percival hedges towards the edge, trying to peek down, while Gwaine says, “You okay? It looked like he was about to-“

“Just a…a spell. On how to cure Merlin.” Gwaine is eyeing his speculatively, and Arthur cuts him off before he can say anything. “No. I know Merlin’s wishes, but it’s a quest only I can complete.”

“Not alone,” Gwaine answers definitively. “You’ll need someone to watch your back.”

“And someone to watch yours,” Percival says to Gwaine, nudging him with an elbow. “When do we leave?”

Arthur thinks for a moment. “Can you get provisions—quietly—for a day’s trip? We’ll also need some horses.”

“Easy,” Gwaine answers. “Where will you be?”

_Exploring the other revelation from the dragon._ “I must speak with Gaius. Percival, can you escort me to his quarters?”

The larger man nods, and the three set off. Half-way back to the tower Gwaine breaks off and heads for what Arthur can only assume is the kitchens. Percival, meanwhile, brings him back into the tower and leads him back up the tower. He motions for the man to wait briefly as he goes to Merlin’s room and enters, finding a stiff-backed Leon and no Lancelot. “Leon-“

The knight nearly rushes him off his feet, stopping just a hair away from tripping them both onto the floor, and for the first time Arthur can remember, Leon scowls at him. “Sire, you said-“

“I apologize, I did not mean to be gone so long.” And he really does mean it. He can see the stress and weight of worry that’s been bothering his former—no, his friend. “I promise, I didn’t go alone. Percival and Gwaine accompanied me. I just didn’t want to wake you.”

The scowl continues for another minute, before the knight seems to realize what he’s doing, shuts his eyes, and forces the feelings away. When his eyes open again, he asks stiffly, “Where did you go?”

“To visit the,” he hesitates, then says, “the dragon. He wanted to talk.”

The knight’s eyes go wide and his mouth hangs open at the admission. It lasts only a minute, but it’s an image Arthur will relish. “The drag—he doesn’t see anyone. Except Balinor. And Merlin.”

“He…asked,” he finally settles on, “for an audience.”

“For what?”

“A way to cure Merlin,” he reports quietly. “I have to go on a quick quest-“

“Not alone.”

Arthur feels himself smile slightly at that. “I had a feeling. Gwaine is gathering supplies. If you tell him you’d like to join-“

“Lancelot will as well. Balinor maybe-“

“No!” Leon flinches at his yell, and Arthur quickly looks out into the hall to make sure he didn’t attract any attention. “No. The dragon was very clear. Balinor can’t know. It’s something I alone can accomplish.” He reaches over and pats Leon’s arm. “I wouldn’t mind the company, though.”

Leon squints at him. “And Balinor can’t know.”

“If he knew, he might…it takes me beyond the protection he’s extending me.”

“And you think he might deny you the chance for fear of the Black Knight.”

It’s a lie, but Arthur will latch onto it easily. “Yes. I just need to speak with Gaius first, and then we need to be on our way. Without anyone noticing, if possible.”

Leon frowns at that, then nods. “I’ll get your chainmail from Freya and find us a quiet way out.”

“Thank you.” He steps back into the hall and Leon follows. As they approach the stairs he can see Lancelot there, whispering to Percival sternly. He turns a quick wounded look upon Arthur, then it’s gone and before him stands the warlock’s First Knight, not Lancelot the man. “I know. I’m sorry. I can explain. I must speak with Gaius first, though.”

Lancelot nods, gives Percival a pointed look, and the larger man descends the stairs. Leon follows, shrugging at Arthur as he follows. “This way, Sire.”

Arthur takes a deep breath. “Lancelot-“

“Percy mentioned the dragon.” There’s a little awe in his voice, but it’s still mostly coated with barely-hidden frustration. “I assume this has to do with Merlin?”

“Yes.”

“Should I inform Lord Balinor?”

“No,” he says it firmly but quietly. “He knows the cure,” he says quickly, “but since only I can obtain it… He’s trying to protect me.”

“You do seem to need it,” he muses with surprisingly little malice in his voice. “You and Merlin, two sides of the same coin,” he continues.

“Wandered off on quests a few times?”

“I met him when both of us were trying to slay a griffin. His father was…not pleased. Even less so when I joined him instead of stopping him.” Lancelot stops in front of a door and looks Arthur in the eye. “In Merlin’s name, I should stop you.”

Arthur thinks for a minute. “If I have to challenge you, Lancelot, I will. If I don’t…Merlin won’t be the only casualty. If I can stop that, I have to try.”

Lancelot’s gaze roves over his face. “Merlin would want that, too,” he agrees quietly, before knocking sharply on the door. “I’ll wait here.”

Arthur nods as Gaius opens the door. It’s a larger room than Merlin’s, with the inside a cross between a bedroom and a laboratory. On one side of the room is a set of tables, upon which are rows of books against the back, and various herbs and three mortars and pestles. The hearth has a cauldron hooked over it, and he spots the woman, Alice, stirring something in it. When he looks back at the older man, he’s waiting for him to finish his evaluation. “Yes, Sire?”

“Can we talk?” He nods into the room. Gaius immediately backs away to admit him. Arthur steps in and stands in front of the closest table, waiting until he hears the door closed before flipping around and pinning the physician with his most penetrating stare. “You told me the story, of Balinor running away and becoming the Fisher King. What you didn’t tell me, is why my father felt the need to banish him, to begin the Purge on magic.”

“Arthur,” Gaius begins, a touch of hesitation in his voice.

“I’ve just found out,” he barrels on, “that I was conceived by _magic_. That my father’s deal with a sorceress is what led to the Great Purge.” With as much authority as he can muster and unleashing just a touch of the anger from earlier, he hisses, “Am I born of magic?” Then, a little more brokenly than he’d like, he asks, “Am I the reason for this war?”

“No,” Gaius says immediately, stepping forward, then back, then further to sit on the edge of the bed on the other side of the room. “You were never meant to find out.”

He bristles. “You _lied_ to me!”

“Of course he did,” Alice snaps, and his attention immediately jumps to the woman as she stands up. “Look at you! You’re just like your father, ready to attack the nearest source of bad news!”

Arthur doesn’t mean to take the menacing step towards her, stops himself and retreats once he realizes what he’s done. “Maybe, but I have—had the right to know. Gaius, my entire life, Uther’s speeches—“

“Yes,” the man says tiredly. “I suppose you know about her, about Nimueh.” At Arthur’s nod, Gaius continues with, “She failed to tell your parents, and I’m afraid I, in with my trust in the High Priestess, did not consider what…what the price might be.”

“So that I have no magic is _convenient,”_ he spits, “for my father. So long as I show no…no signs of power?” He thinks of Morgana. “Would he have killed so many if it had been me, not Morgana? If I’d had some magic?” He tries to meet Gaius’ gaze. “Does he even…Gaius, does he hate me? Hate what I’m from?”

“If you believe nothing else, Arthur, believe in your father’s love for you, of you.”

“Even if I started doing magic? Even if I start sympathizing with you?” The man still won’t meet his eyes. “Answer me!”

“Yes,” Alice says bitterly, “yes he would.”

“Alice!”

She crosses the room to sit beside the physician. “I was there. I saw him turn on Nimueh, on Balinor, on friends and family for the merest _suspicion_. You had to smuggle me out!” She glares at Arthur. “If you became like us, he’d hate you just as much.”

Gaius doesn’t contradict her, though Arthur can see he’s trying to search for the words to. Rather than give him the chance, he asks again, “Did I start this war?”

“No,” Gaius’ answer is once again immediate. “No,” he reiterates when Alice opens her mouth. “Uther started the Purge, over what he perceived to be an injustice done upon him. The war…the war may be the fault of your father and Balinor.”

Arthur considers that a moment. “Because he changed Destiny.” There’s no surprise on either of their faces at that, so obviously they knew how Balinor became king.

He thinks back to the thousands Balinor says would have died. “He did what he thought was best.”

“He should have struck your father dead,” Alice says bitterly.

“Then why,” he asks her, “don’t you try and kill me?”

She huffs. “Because you’re like him, but you…you saved one of us.” She frowns down to her hands. “You’re so much like your father.”

“Yes,” he waves it aside, “because I-“

“Before he went mad,” she corrects, and it silences him. “When he was young, and strong. He could be vicious but he was a just king, and Ygraine…Queen Ygraine kept him calm, tempered his anger.” She tilts her head up to face him again. “You may fight us, Arthur, but we see in you a hope.”

“From before,” he reiterates. He remembers his promise to Balinor. To Gaius he asks, “Would it have been better, had I never been born?”

“Arthur, you can’t begin to think like that.”

“Answer the-“

“No.” This time, Gaius looks him in the eye and raises a disapproving eyebrow. “You are the Prince of Camelot. What would have been better is pointless to debate and what should have been was upset by the Fisher King’s appearance. It doesn’t matter, born of magic or not. You are Uther’s son and Camelot’s future. You cannot doubt yourself, Arthur. Question your father’s actions in regards to magic, in persisting in this war. Not yourself and whether what might have been would be better.”

Arthur leans back at the speech, absorbing it. He nods once, but can’t help asking, “Did he regret it? Once he knew the price?”

Gaius keeps looking him squarely in the eye. “Your father has many regrets. You have never been one of them.”

He nods slowly. “But all this time, all the beheadings and burnings for suspicions, for consorting…he’s killed all those people when he himself is guilty of the crime.”

“Yes,” Alice answers immediately. “A murderer and hypocrite.”

Once again, Gaius doesn’t contradict her, and frankly, Arthur doesn’t either. “Thank you, for your honesty,” he finally says. “Goodbye, Gaius.” He nods his head at her, “Alice,” and heads for the door.

Just before he opens it Gaius says, “You’ll be a magnificent king, Arthur. Don’t let questions of your birth cloud your judgement.”

“I won’t.” He closes his eyes a moment. “I’ll miss you, Gaius, when I depart from here.”

“Don’t worry, my boy. We’ll find a way to keep in contact.”

“Of course,” he answers hollowly, before repeating, “Goodbye,” and leaving the room.

Lancelot falls into step beside him and they immediately head downstairs. He’d like to stop, speak with Morgana and Balinor one last time, but he can’t take the chance. The Fisher King will be in council all day.

It’s the only chance he’ll have to save Merlin, and prevent the death of thousands.


	14. Chapter 14

Gwaine, for being boisterous and a crowd pleaser, is also just as devious as Arthur had suspected and is able to get them out of the tower and away from the guard without raising any suspicions. Once they’re far enough he turns his horse and follows the map in his mind. He wonders what will happen, when Merlin wakes up. Will the big-eared fellow curse his name and toss his soldiers aside? Will Balinor harm his dragon for betraying the secret?

Will Morgana ever forgive him?

They stop approximately midday to eat some dried venison with bread. The knights have tried talking to him, trying to find out more about the quest. He’s simply answers that they have to follow the path Kilgharrah laid out in his mind. He doubts they’ll let him get to the Isle alone. He wouldn’t be surprised if at least one of them doesn’t figure out what he’s up to when they see the water.

Now’s as good a time as any. When Lancelot starts making noises about continuing the ride, Arthur clears his throat. Instantly, all four knights look to him. “I want to thank you, for escorting me on this mission.”

“Someone’s gotta watch your back while Merlin’s sleeping on the job.” Gwaine’s aiming for jovial but he misses with the anguish threaded around Merlin’s name. “Besides, it’s good to ride again.”

“We’re honored,” Lancelot says, “that you’re willing to share with us the way to heal our friend.” The ‘your enemy’ is left unsaid.

Leon just raises an eyebrow and says, “I’ve always followed you, Sire, even when I wasn’t.”

Percival merely does that large shrug of his, but he has a small smile on his face.

Arthur ducks his head briefly, embarrassed. “I…have to warn you. Where we’ll be going…it’s hostile.”

“Funny thing,” Gwaine says, “us knights are somewhat good with the sword.”

“What I mean is,” Arthur swallows, “you can follow me, but…there will come a point when I must walk alone. The dragon was…the directions are very clear.”

Leon is watching him with narrowed eyes. “Sire, if you could clarify-“

“I can’t,” he snaps, then forces himself to calm down. “I can’t,” he repeats more gently, “because-“

“Because if you did,” Percival interrupts, “we’d try to stop you. Like Balinor would.” The other knights look at him, and he nods towards the woods. “Black Knight hasn’t gotten through yet, so it can’t be that.” He juts his chin towards Arthur. “He’s not wearing a sword, so he’s not expecting to go into battle.”

Lancelot glances between the two, before saying, “What sort of quest is this, Arthur.”

“The kind where I’ll need your support, even if it’s just your presence,” he answers. More carefully he says to Lancelot, “I wasn’t lying. If I don’t do this, it’s not just Merlin’s life in the balance.”

“You’re changing Destiny,” Gwaine says breathlessly, “You’re gonna pull a Fisher King and try to save everyone.”

“Not everyone. Just, as many as I can.”

Eyes still narrowed, Leon asks, “By doing what?”

“What needs to be done,” he repeats, then stands up, brushing the dirt from his trousers. “We should keep moving.”

“This isn’t-“

“Leon,” Arthur looks him in the eye, “The topic is closed.” His tone is absolute. “If you can’t support me, I won’t ask you to ride any further.”

With a defiant look, Leon gets up, mounts his horse, and then gives Arthur a pointed stare. With a nod, Arthur hops on his own horse, and within minutes they’re riding again, following a map only he can see. When they crest a hill and the forest parts, he can see a fog covering not only the Isle and the lake, but the shore. It’s beautiful, yet he can’t help the shudder that runs up his spine at the sight. Something hideous lies within that cloud, a Priestess who unleashed a great monster that killed his men and nearly killed him.

How many other sorcerers did she send after him, after his father?

How many poor harvest seasons or poisoned wells did she cause them?

How many other people did she trick, giving their lives for a child?

How much longer can the injustice she’s done stand?

His father may be a hypocrite, a…a mass murderer, but part of the blame lies with her. He wishes he could deal with her, dole out the justice she rightfully deserves not only for the people of Camelot she’s harmed, but for himself, and his mother. If only she had told Uther the truth, how many people would be alive today?

Probably not him, but hundreds of others.

It’s a fair trade. He had no choice back then. This time he does. Uther will rally his forces, strike back at the Fisher King, but Merlin is strong enough, powerful enough, to keep them at bay, to keep the Fisher King’s people safe. Once he’s awake the other sorcerers won’t threaten Camelot, won’t send undead armies to slay not only his knights, but the people he’s sworn to protect as Prince and future King.

He hopes Camelot finds a just ruler once he’s gone. Someone wise enough to end this meaningless, bloody war and sue for peace. Someone who might even welcome magic back some day, heal the wounds his father has so viciously sowed with salt.

He also wishes, as they get closer to the lake, that he’d picked up Balinor’s sword. A knight should die with his weapon. It may not be his, but the symbolism is important, and he regrets not taking two seconds to grab it from the King’s room. He didn’t, though, because he wants her to know that he’s not a threat, that he’s coming to her with a proposition, armed with nothing but his courage and the armor he bears.

At least he’ll die in his armor. That’s fitting enough.

It’s about an hour before sunset when he slows his horse down. The fog is still all encompassing, but where Arthur’s headed, it seems to part for him. He hears the quiet lapping of water before he sees it, and stops his horse so that he can dismount. He looks the mare in the face, finds it to be yet another one that may be of Camelot’s stock. He strokes its nose quietly, then drops the reins and turns around. The fog has continued to part, a path down to a shoreline, where he can see a small dock and an even smaller boat.

He hears some murmuring behind him, then senses the knights fan out around him. Not in a protective manner. They’re encircling him. Trapping him. Lancelot and Leon stand in front, and he scowls. “I said-“

“That’s the way to the Isle of the Blessed,” Gwaine says, disgust and menace in his tone. “That sorcerer who killed Will? The one who sent him lives on that Isle.”

“I know.”

“If this is for revenge,” Gwaine starts.

“It’s not,” he answers.

“Then I’m afraid I’m going to have to change my mind and say we should head back.” There’s a hint of threat in his voice when he says, “and you’re coming with.”

“I can’t.” He looks around at the knights. “The dragon…look, someone sent the Questing Beast.”

Leon catches on quickly. “She did.” He looks over his shoulder briefly. “You’re going to her, to make a deal.”

“She has the power to heal Merlin,” Arthur tells them.

“No,” Lancelot says firmly. “I gave you my vow. No harm would come to you while you’re in my custody.”

“I release you,” Arthur answers just as firmly, “from your vow, and request you do your duty to the realm and let me pass.” He steps forward. “We’re no longer in the Perilous Lands,” he says quietly, “and you have no authority here.”

“Maybe not,” Gwaine adds, “but Merlin tried to stop this from happening. So,” there’s a shuffle, and then he feels Percival’s large hands land on his shoulders. Heavily.

He flexes his fingers. “I’ll fight you.”

“Arthur,” Leon has a pleading note in his tone, “we can’t just let you die. For all we know she’ll simply…simply kill you, without curing Merlin. Then what do we do? Do you think we,” he indicates the four of them, their shields and armor, “can kill her?”

He meets Leon’s eyes. “Hundreds will die if I don’t.” He turns his gaze to Lancelot. “Without Merlin, eventually Camelot will break through. Your people will fight, but we outnumber you. Is that what you want, to let Camelot win, to invade and slaughter Balinor, Merlin,” he pushes hard with, “Gwen?”

He can see the barb land, but he also sees how Lancelot steels himself. “We will resist, even without Merlin. I won’t let down the Fisher King, nor will I let down Merlin by you-“

A howling wind cuts him off and the knights shift closer, covering him as sand and air swirl at the edge of the lake until with a clap it’s gone, and in its place is a tall regal woman. She has blond hair that curls down around her shoulders, with a blunt nose and sharp eyes that remind him instantly of Morgana. Most notable, however, is that she’s dressed like any other knight, in chainmail with plated armor strapped to around her neck, gantlets on her hands, greaves on her feet. She’s not wearing a helmet and in her hand is an unsheathed sword, though in a defensive position, not aimed at any one of them.

There’s an unspoken wave of anticipation around the knights, and as one they all shift in front of Arthur, forming a wall between him and the woman. Arthur wonders if this is Nimueh, but Lancelot’s wary, “Morgause,” knocks down that theory.

She ignores the knight and stares at Arthur. “Prince Arthur.” Her voice is full of steel and velvet, and it’s again so much like Morgana that he can easily believe they’re related.

It also reminds him what Balinor said, about this woman wanting him and Camelot slaughtered by an undead army. He tilts his chin up and glares at her. “Have you come to slaughter me, against Merlin’s wishes?”

The knights all tense, but she smirks. It’s not in amusement. It’s cruel and arrogant. “He could do nothing to stop me, but no.” Her gaze finally shifts to Lancelot. “In honor of our… _friendship_ with the Perilous Lands, I won’t go against his wishes.”

The unspoken ‘for now’ is easily heard by all of them, he can tell. “What do you want,” Lancelot asks, still as wary, not one of the knights moving out of the way.

“You seek a way to the Isle of the Blessed.” Her smirk turns into a scowl. “You are not welcome.” Her eyes linger on Arthur another moment. “Especially you.”

“Fine by me,” Gwaine spits. “We were just leaving.”

“No,” Arthur starts.

“You heard the lady,” Gwaine says, not turning his back on the woman, but shifting his stance so he can shove Arthur away. “We never should’ve come.”

Arthur grabs Gwaine’s wrist and pushes it forward, ignoring his attempts to back-peddle. He narrows his eyes at Morgause. “You speak for your mistress, Nimueh?”

“Sire, don’t,” Leon warns and pleads in the same breath.

Morgause searches Arthur’s face a moment, before giving him a single nod. “She saw your approach, and summoned me. I have bested many knights.” She eyes the four men in armor. “Men far better than you.”

Arthur bristles on the knights’ behalf, but notices none of them react to the baiting. _They’re better than you’ll ever be,_ he can’t help thinking at her, but he bites his tongue, doesn’t let the comment escape. Instead, he calls to her, “I’ve come to make a bargain.”

A flash of surprise crosses her hardened features. “What sort of bargain?”

“I,” which is all he gets out, before Percival swivels around sheathing his sword and wrapping an arm around his neck in one fluid movement. He chokes, but the larger man is only keeping enough pressure to silence him, not to hurt him. He struggles, prying at the arm to little avail.

“We’ll leave,” Lancelot starts, and that’s all he gets to say before Morgause raises her hand and hisses, “Hleap on baec!”

The three knights in front of him are knocked back, breaking their wall between him and her, but the spell doesn’t seem to affect them much otherwise. He remembers Lancelot mentioning Percival’s shield was enchanted to protect from magic. Based on what happened, he can only assume their armors must be as well.

In a louder, more frustrated voice she shouts, “Oferswing!” and this time the three knights do fly back, pushed away by some invisible force. Percival is still holding him, and he realizes if she did the same to him, he might snap Arthur’s neck. It’s what she wants, so why isn’t she?

_You asked for a bargain,_ his mind supplies. It’s a betrayal, the son of Uther asking for a bargain with a magic user. No matter what it would be, the woman probably sees the potential value in making a deal with Camelot’s Prince. It would destroy his father, knowing his son willingly made a deal with magic.

He thinks it would destroy his father.

He’d like to think it would. He has doubts, now. He can’t help it, no matter what Gaius says.

Morgause approaches easily, watching Percival like a hawk. “I’d like to hear this bargain. Or are Balinor’s knights afraid of what he’ll ask?”

“Yes,” Percival says immediately, “we are. It’s a betrayal of a promise.”

“Well, now I must hear it.” She narrows her eyes at the larger knight. “Onslaep nu Percival.”

Arthur feels Percival stiffen, then the grip on his throat grows lax and the man slides to the floor, his eyes closed. He clenches his fist and glares at her. “If you’ve hurt him-“

“Merely a sleeping spell.” She glances at the other knights, and Arthur can hear them getting back to their feet. “What would you ask of the High Priestess of the Old Religion?”

For the vitriol she must have for him and Camelot based on Balinor’s discussion, there’s genuine curiosity in her eyes. He glances around at the knights, looking at Leon first, then Lancelot, before turning back to her and taking a deep breath. “I wish to exchange my life for Merlin’s.”

Her eyes widen briefly, before the smirk returns to her face, victorious and dark. “Well, now. Arthur Pendragon, trading his life for a warlock’s. What would Uther say?” She begins circling him, but he stands still, despite the sword she holds.

“He would condemn me, most likely. But…I owe Merlin a debt. I intend to repay it.”

“By betraying his wish that you live?” She laughs as she comes around his right side. “Oh, this is too much! What would Balinor says?”

He waits until she’s in front of him before looking her in the eye and stating, “The same thing as Morgana.” The laughter leaves her face completely. “She would tell me I’m a self-sacrificing idiot. She’d rather find another way.” He can’t help but ask, “What will you tell her, if the bargain’s made?”

She matches his look for a moment, then turns away, scowling. “You dare invoke my sister’s name.”

“She’s my sister too. You might be able to protect her, but for how long?”

She glares at him now. “As long as it takes.”

“What if she demands to defend Balinor and the Perilous Lands? She will, you must know that.” At her flinch he risks stepping forward. In a quieter voice he says, “Without Merlin, they’ll fall. I’m not going to let that happen.”

“I can protect her without Merlin’s help,” she argues.

“Maybe so. But what of the rest? Do you care so little for your own kind you’d let them be slaughtered?” The barb hits and she looks away again. “My life for Merlin’s,” he reiterates as the knights run towards them. “That’s all I ask.”

She watches him, with eyes that seem to be judging his worth, his very character. He’s been on the receiving end of that before from Morgana, and takes some comfort that, once he’s gone, she’ll have someone looking out for her. “The deal can be made.” She sheathes her sword and nods towards the boat. “It will carry the weight of you five. Board it and it will take you to the Isle.”

He bows his head. “I thank you.”

“Your death will be thanks enough,” she replies, though the vehemence from before is lacking in her tone. She stalks away as Gwaine and Lancelot reach Percival, as Leon dashes in front of him, sword still drawn. She’s nearly to the shore when he hears, “Bedyrne ús! Astýre ús þanonweard!” Another whirlwind rises with sand and in moment later Morgause is gone, leaving him alone with the knights, and the way to the Isle clear.

Leon stares after her, then pivots and faces Arthur. “Sire, you-“

“I’ve made up my mind, Leon.” He reaches out and claps Leon’s shoulders. “Don’t you understand? Without Merlin, the Perilous Lands will fall. Their deaths will be on me.”

He’s shaking his head. “There must be another way. A relic, a, an unknown spell-“

“Do you think the dragon wouldn’t have said something if that were the case?” Arthur honestly doesn’t know, but there was something about his tone, something in the creature’s voice, that makes him think there was no falsehood to his words. “Balinor knows, and he knows what he’s risking by not asking me to do this.” In a firm, commanding voice he continues with, “I will not be responsible for the deaths of so many. Not when I can put a stop to it. It’s the duty not only as a knight, but a prince.”

From behind him, Lancelot counters with, “These aren’t your people, Prince.”

When he shifts around to face the Captain, he sees Gwaine has woken Percival up, though the man appears groggy from the spell. Looking back to Lancelot, he raises an eyebrow. “If a curse were laid upon Camelot, and you held the only way to save all those people, would you sacrifice yourself?”

Lancelot meets his gaze. “I’m not a prince.”

“Merlin, then. His life for the denizens of Camelot, the Five Kingdoms. Any of your enemies. Wouldn’t he do the same to save as many as possible?”

Lancelot stares at him a long while at that, the other knights seeming to hold their breath in anticipation. Finally, Lancelot bows his head. “Yes,” he concedes, “if it would save hundreds, even of his enemies, he would.”

“Lancelot,” Leon protests.

Gwaine chimes in with, “Merlin’s wishes-“

“Merlin would save as many as he could,” Percival says, “no matter the personal cost.” He scowls at the ground, fists clenched. “You have no right to make us contradict his will, but,” when he looks up, Arthur sees a new gleam of respect in his eyes, “you’re honoring him, perhaps better than we could.”

“It’s still not right,” Gwaine mutters.

“No,” Percival agrees while pushing himself to his feet, “it’s not.”

Arthur makes sure he has Lancelot’s support with a silent nod, and then he turns back to Leon, who looks both defiant and crushed. “I have to,” he says again.

Leon puts his sword back in its scabbard and looks to the ground for a minute, and Arthur can see he’s recomposing himself, reigning in his feelings. Finally, he meets Arthur’s eyes with a plaintive, “Of course, Sire.”

Arthur’s smile matches his tone, and he lets his gaze rove over the knights. “I would appreciate the support, and the company, if you’re so inclined.”

“Just try and stop us,” Gwaine says, hopping to his own feet.


	15. Chapter 15

The trip on the boat is made in silence, though he can sense all of the men want to say more, to plead more. Instead, they’re honoring his wishes, letting him gather his thoughts as the boat sways gently through the fog and across the lake. When the fog parts again, they’re coming to a slow stop at a small shore dock, a mirror of the one on the other side of the lake. Though the sun is only beginning to set, there are lit braziers framing the end of the dock. As he climbs out, he sees a worn path in the lush grass, bracketed by unlit torches leading to a stone table and a strange woman. Nimueh, he presumes.

“Arthur,” Leon tries one last time.

Arthur holds up his fist, stopping any further protestations. “Whatever happens now you do not interfere.” He spares a glance at them, four knights that, in other circumstances, he would be proud to lead. Today, though, today they must stay by the boat. They’re here to bear witness, and to take his body back.

He turns his attentions back to Nimueh, his steps slow. She’s not at all as he imagined her, given that she was present at his birth. She’s beautiful, pale and tall with hair the color of fertile soil and lips turned up in a mischievous smirk. She’s wearing a simple dress that becomes wisps around her feet. It’s the same shade of red as the Pendragon crest. In the light of the setting sun, her eyes seem to dance, and one slim hand is held palm out. Her eyes don’t become gold, but the gesture seems to keep the wyverns around him away.

She wants a clear path to his death. She’s taunting him. Testing him.

She’s a fool. He won’t run like some coward, or beg for his life, or flinch at the creatures around him. He’s a Knight of Camelot. He’s the Crown Prince. He won’t bow before her, or play her game.

He’s here for Merlin. He has a debt to repay and people to protect. That duty, that honor, is all the strength he needs to keep his resolve.

He stops only a few feet away, tilting his chin up to meet her gaze. She gives no reaction other than a quirk of her lips. Obviously, she can play the game as well. He stands there, staring her down, or trying to.

She breaks the silence first, lowering her arm with the grace of a noblewoman. “Prince Arthur. It’s good to see you again.” Her eyes rake over his body. “You’ve grown marvelously. As strong as your mother thought you’d be.”

He ignores her attempt at distraction. “I’ve come to trade my life for Merlin’s.” Her laugh isn’t unexpected, her head thrown back with a sound that sends shivers through his soul. “I’m serious.”

Her laughter dies out, and she looks towards him again. “I know. It just amuses me. He was willing to give his life for you. You, who would behead him in an instant.” She turns towards the pillars of stone arranged in a circle. In the center is a pedestal, atop which sits a chalice. “And now, you’re willing to make his sacrifice in vain.”

At that, he bristles. “I cannot pay back a life’s debt to someone who is dead. He was an idiot to get between me and that beast.” He doesn’t follow her, just watches as she picks up the cup and dips it into a bowl atop the pedestal. “I’m just doing my duty, as any prince should, when a subject is in trouble.”

At that, she turns. “He’s your enemy, young Prince, not your subject.”

And Arthur remembers back to the battles he’s fought, how the young man astride a unicorn always defended himself, his friends, but never struck a deadly blow. He remembers watching from a distance as Merlin walked amongst the battlefield and healed any he could, be they his own soldiers, or wearing the colors of Camelot. He remembers how that lanky, skinny warlock somehow got it into his head that his life is worth less than that of his enemy.

He looks her straight in the eyes. “I regret that, because enemy or not, he’s earned my respect.” He holds out his hand. “And unlike you, he’s an honorable man.”

The smirk vanishes from her face and the wind picks up, blowing her hair back as she glares at him with a visceral hatred; the depths of which he’s only seen once before in the eyes of his father when speaking of magic. As the torches alight around them and the sun begins to dip below the horizon, she says, “I look forward to the end of your bloodline, Pendragon.” Her words are as cold as her gaze. She thrusts the cup out. “This is the Cup of Life. Drink from it, and you shall die in Merlin’s stead.”

He steps forward to reach for the cup, only to jump back at a roar that seems to shake the very Isle itself. The wyverns let out an answering howl and scamper. One takes to the sky, only to let out a shriek as a shadow above snatches it out of the air. Another is caught by a large claw as the monster descends. Arthur can’t help but take a step back as the dragon Kilgharrah lands in front of the castle. There’s a crunch of bones and a satisfied growl as it lowers its neck.

Balinor slides off the beast and examines the scene. Nimueh is on guard now, Arthur notices, eyeing the dragon more than the dragonlord. He hears Lancelot call out, “My Lord,” only for Balinor to wave off the greeting. Arthur takes a quick look at the shocked faces of the knights and remembers the rules, that the dragon must not leave the lands of the Fisher King, or the curse would return, dooming the lands. Balinor has just doomed his kingdom, but Arthur isn’t sure for what. Certainly not a rescue, he wouldn’t choose Arthur over his own people. Why would Balinor risk his home, the safety of Merlin, to come save him?

“High Priestess,” Balinor greets with just a tone of derision. “I see Gaius was right. The Prince did come to you.” He lets his eyes lock with Arthur’s. “Merlin wanted him to live, but I suppose such actions mean nothing to a prat.”

Arthur tries to hide the surprise at the term. Merlin had called him that, just before he fell unconscious. He hadn’t thought anyone else had heard it. He’s also not sure what to make of the cold distance in the man’s voice, one he hasn’t heard except after Will’s death.

Balinor’s words haven’t put Nimueh at ease. “And what brings you to my Isle, Dragonlord?” Her attention is still on the dragon, the Cup of Life now held tightly to her chest. “Come to interfere with Destiny?” The _again_ is silent, but heard by everyone.

“You and I both know Destiny is the tool of dragons.” He says it without irony, but Arthur sees Nimueh narrow her eyes at the tone. “No, I am here to bear witness.” He draws his sword. It’s larger, different than the one Arthur saw him with earlier. It has a golden hilt, marked like the sun, and the blade itself has bronze runes embedded down the center, framed by the silver edges. He doesn’t know if it’s magical, but it’s a beautiful weapon, the likes of which he’s never seen.

“Bear witness,” the scorn in Nimueh’s voice repudiates the ugly smile on her face. “You would let me kill the young prince, despite your son’s wishes?”

Balinor twists the blade in his hands, and once again meets Arthur’s eyes. “I would do anything to end this war, Priestess. If that means one death to save my kingdom,” his gaze shifts over the woman, “so be it.”

Now, Arthur is hiding his reactions as best he can. Either Balinor is putting on a show, or since Arthur is going through with the sacrifice, he’s embracing the turn of events for the betterment of his kingdom. Arthur knows his father would assume the latter, but Arthur can’t help but think it’s the former, especially after their discussion yesterday.

Balinor continues with, “However, killing him won’t be enough.” He raises the sword over his head, and speaks the guttural, echoing language of dragons.

Kilgharrah stretches out his neck in response, and lets loose a flame to encompass all but the hilt of the sword. Arthur’s impressed at Balinor’s bravery, that the heat hasn’t burnt his hand. He can see some smoke as the dragon seems to run out of breath, and instead of the slag he expects, the sword instead shines bright, with gold and red hues washing over it as it cools.

Balinor lowers the sword, and pulls a bottle out of his vest. He hears Nimueh gasp as the dragonlord pulls out the stopper with his teeth and pours part of it on the blade. The scream of steam is familiar, but instead of a plume of smoke, the aura on the sword fades. It once again looks like a sword, but Arthur can see its polish is stronger, sharper, better than any sword smith could ever hope to achieve.

There’s a little liquid left in the bottle, and with a quick salute to Merlin’s knights, he tilts his head back and downs the contents. Nimueh lets out a shocked cry. Arthur’s not sure why. It’s undoubtedly magical water, but how powerful could water be?

A shudder seems to wrack Balinor’s body, then he lets out a breath, golden sparks floating in the air as he does. When he lowers his head, his eyes are liquid gold. “All of magic must know what transpires here, Nimueh.” He plunges the sword into a stone before him, and a pulse runs through the ground. Arthur can actually feel the magic pass through and around him, spreading far across the land. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he tenses, looking between the two magic users.

The guarded stance of Nimueh slowly melts, and the vicious smirk slides back across her face. “It seems,” she says slowly, “we are not so different.” More confidently, “We both want our revenge.”

“You want revenge,” Balinor counters, staring directly at Arthur. “I want to protect my people. And it seems fate,” he glances over to Nimueh, “has decreed this to be the way.”

She’s relaxed now, her smile sharp. “And who are we,” she turns to face Arthur, “to argue with fate?”

Balinor mutters another grisly, incomprehensible phrase, and the dragon stretches its wings and takes to the air. Arthur holds his breath at the sight, at how this large creature can so gracefully alight like a common bird. He watches it for a minute longer, then turns his attention back to Nimueh. She’s holding the Cup out again, and he takes it, careful not to touch her hands as he pulls it close. Its water is crystal clear, looking as refreshing as a river in spring. It’s almost easy to forget consuming it will be akin to drinking poison.

“Go on, Arthur. Merlin doesn’t have much time. Or is your life worth that much more than his?” She waves to the right, to where Balinor stands, hands on the sword, eyes bright and alien. “All of Albion is waiting to see.”

He squares his shoulders at that, and meets her challenging look with one of his own. “I do this for Merlin. Anyone that honorable,” he clears his throat, “that stupidly brave, should not be punished. Not when it was meant for me.” He turns on his heel to face Balinor. “I regret,” he says firmly, “not knowing him sooner. He seems like a good man.”

“That’s why he’ll forgive you, Arthur.” Balinor bows his head slightly. “And that’s why he’ll eventually forgive me.”

Nimueh snorts, at the dragonlord’s noble statement, no doubt. “You assume a lot, when he has yet to take a drink.” She tilts her head. “Go on, Prince of Camelot. Or are you scared?”

In a show of defiance, he lifts the cup in a toast, first to Balinor and then, with a mocking smirk, to Nimueh. He brings the cup to his lips. Despite the night air, the metal is warm. The water is sweet, and he gulps it down, like he did for his first glass of wine. It takes less than a minute. He lowers the goblet and stares at Nimueh, watching as the glee spreads across her face.

When nothing happens after an intense moment, he feels himself frown, his brow furrow. He looks down at the Cup, then back at Nimueh. The confusion is mirrored on her face. He takes one step back, then another as the wind picks up around her again. The fire from the torches flare, burning bigger, brighter. His next step back seems to break whatever reverie she’s in and she lets out a scream, full of rage and somewhat inhuman.

He calls up every reserve bit of strength he has to spin on his heel and bolt away from the witch. He calls out to the knights as the ground beside him explodes, embers and dirt spraying him as he changes course to duck and weave. He sees Nimueh throw out her hand again, but before the fireball hits he’s jerked to the ground and Lancelot stands above him, taking the blast with his shield.

“Here, Golden Boy,” Gwaine hands over his own shield. “Get to Balinor.”

He shakes his head. “He’s your-“

“We’re the only ones who can fight,” Leon interrupts. “Our armor is enchanted, remember?” There’s a grunt from Lancelot, and Percival easily steps over them to take the next blast. “The King will protect you.”

“I’m a Knight-“

“As you charged yourself with Merlin,” Lancelot says, strained, “we are now charging you. Protect Balinor, so we are not distracted in this battle.”

A glance at the ground shows divots as Percival struggles to maintain his position. Lancelot has all but lost his footing. They need to go on the offensive, they know it, Arthur knows it. “Alright.” He looks at Gwaine. “Stay near Percival. Merlin would be…upset if anything happened to you.”

The grin Gwaine gives him is wide, and he nods once before shoving Arthur away and letting out an exuberant shout. That seems to be what they were waiting for, as all four knights charge forward, dodging the magical blasts from Nimueh. Arthur only has to duck behind his shield twice before she’s too distracted by the knights to focus on him. He uses the opportunity to run to Balinor.

The man, he sees, is sitting behind the rock, leaning against it. His breathing is labored, and Arthur kneels beside him, setting the shield against the stone as extra protection. He reaches for Balinor’s neck, as Gaius once taught him, and feels for the pulse of life. It’s weak, and the breaths he’s taking are shaky. When he opens his eyes, the gold is gone, leaving only the warm but glazed brown that they were before.

Arthur can think of only one explanation. “You exchanged your own life.”

“The Waters of Avalon can do many things.” The dragonlord offers him a half-smile. “I would give my life for Merlin’s any day, Prince.”

“But why? The Questing Beast was sent for me. You have nothing to gain.”

There’s a raised eyebrow at that, and struggling, Balinor lifts his hand to rest on Arthur’s shoulder. “This was always meant to be, Pendragon. I took the place of the Fisher King, and used Kilgharrah to feed the curse so that I could live. Now I must pay the price for that, and I choose to do so to save my son.”

“You could have been immortal,” he says, reaching up to take Balinor’s hand. The skin between his palms is cold enough to penetrate his gloves. “You could see Merlin grow up.”

“I am not a part of Merlin’s Destiny,” Balinor exhales. “The Fisher King must surrender himself to the veil, so that all of Albion can unite under the Once and Future King.”

He holds the hand tighter. “And where is this king? Without you, the Perilous Lands won’t have a leader. Camelot will overrun them. Your wife, your son-“

“I have faith that someone will take up the blade and defend them.” He glances up, and Arthur follows his gaze to the sword in the stone, then looks back down at Balinor. “It is meant for you, Prince.” His eyes clear up and he seems to gather enough strength to squeeze Arthur’s hand. “He is meant for you.”

“Who is?”

“The Greatest Warlock.” Balinor breathes out. “His Destiny,” he whispers, “is with the Once and Future King.”

With that, the dragonlord’s chest stills, and feeling at the neck again, Arthur can find nothing, no sign of life. He lowers Balinor’s hand, then looks to the sword, hearing once more the battle nearby. The knights are losing, he can tell from the sounds. Balinor no longer needs protecting. He grabs the hilt of the sword. “The Once and Future King” he mutters, not even surprised as the weapon slides out of the rock as easily as if it were simply in a sheath.  It’s still pristine, still gorgeous, and he can feel in it a power unlike any weapon before. Balinor was right. It’s meant for him. He can feel it down to his soul.

Grabbing the shield once more, he emerges from the rock in time to see Percival fly through the air and land half in the lake. He doesn’t get up. Lancelot is still standing his ground, armor burned and twisted, his shield nothing more than scrap. Leon is protectively lying over Gwaine, who lies still beneath, face bloody and arm burnt.

He moves without thought, charging forward and letting muscle instinct from years of training take over. Lancelot notices his approach a split second before Nimueh. He catches her off guard, but she’s able to duck away from the blade. It sings through the air, through his blood. They both want her dead for what’s transpired here tonight. Lancelot, either sensing this, or knowing he’s no longer needed, backs away towards the fallen Percival.

“Balinor was a fool,” she spits. “Your death would’ve ended this war.”

“Uther would have retaliated.”

“And he would’ve lost!” The next fireball is as large as his head, and the shield shudders under the onslaught. “Balinor believed in _your_ Destiny, in the ideals of that accursed dragon!” Another fireball. “All because Emrys,” her hatred at the name is palpable, “believed it!” She ducks at his next swipe and uses the opportunity to blast the shield away from him.

Arthur steps back and places both hands on the hilt, bracing himself.

She stops, glaring at him, at the knights, at the sword. “Magic will rise, Pendragon, and it will wipe your kin from all of Albion. I will see your family name tarnished, degraded, and lost. And when the kingdoms fall to the Old Religion once more, no one will remember you, or him,” she nods to the rock Balinor lies behind, “or that weak warlock of his.”

He growls a little at that, feels something within him refuse to let Merlin come to further harm at the hands of this witch. “You want to end this, Priestess,” he sneers at the title, imitating Balinor’s earlier tone, “then we’ll end this.” He charges, letting out the fiercest battle cry he knows.

No fire forms before her. Instead, pure magic shoots from her palms, red lightning as sharp and deadly as any weapon. He swings his sword, and the edge of the blade catches the power, traps it, wraps around it. He can feel the power of the old magic gather in his weapon and he has one satisfying glimpse at her surprised face before he plunges the sword through her breast. Lightning erupts from the sky at the strike, blinding him, and when he blinks away the spots, his blade is clean of blood, smoldering, and all that’s left of Nimueh is a scorch mark on the ground.

He feels himself panting, shaking. Somehow, though, somehow he knows it’s done. “No one will remember you,” he mutters. “I’ll make sure of it.”


	16. Chapter 16

It’s an instant later, as Arthur is glaring at the scorch mark on the ground where Nimueh once stood, that the sky seems to dim and, where once was a bright moon and countless stars, there’s nothing but clouds which immediately unleash a downpour upon them. He’s soaked in less than a minute, and a small part of his mind wonders if this is magic’s way of washing away the witch’s remains, or some other message. The sky crying at the death of a High Priestess. The sky crying at the death of the Fisher King.

He doesn’t know enough about magic to try and figure it out, only to know that this storm is most definitely not natural.

Over the sound of buckets of rain crashing into the lake surface, he calls to Lancelot and Leon, “Get them to the castle!” He points with his sword. He isn’t sure they’ve heard him, until Lancelot hauls Percival to his feet and half drags, half carries the knight. Squinting through the curtain of water he sees Leon lifting Gwaine over his shoulder, and Arthur nods before jogging back over to the rock where Balinor lays. He stares down at the king, looking more at peace now than he ever did while alive, and debates what to do.

Finally, he kneels down long enough to unstrap the sword belt and put it around his own waist so he can sheathe the sword. That done, he grunts and lifts the body into his arms, stumbling towards the castle after the knights. He nearly trips twice thanks to the mud and the lack of vision without the torches, but there must be something lit inside the castle, as there’s a blurred doorway shining through the rain.

Just as he reaches the doorway, two soaking arms reach out and help with the weight of the body and he sputters, blinking away the water in his eyes to find Lancelot in front of him, dripping onto the stone floor and looking at the still face of his monarch. Glancing around, he sees there’s sconces in the wall, half of which are lit providing a touch of warmth and low light. Percival is lying on his back near a large dark hearth on the far side of the room, with Leon laying Gwaine carefully beside the large man.

He hears dripping water, and looking up he sees parts of the roof missing, and wonders how decrepit the building is, if it’s like the tower in the Perilous Lands. It would make sense, especially if there was only the one Priestess residing on the island. On either side of the hearth are arched doorways that lead to a darkened area, but beyond that he can see the wall of water again, an inner courtyard of some sort, he’d guess.

“Over here,” Lancelot finally mutters, drawing Arthur’s attention back, and together they move to the right of the doorway where it’s dry, but the wall sconces don’t quite reach, leaving part of the room shadowed. They lay the king out the same as the knights, and Arthur backs away as Lancelot bows over the body. When the man shows no signs of rising any time soon, Arthur leaves him to his mourning and walks over to Leon.

Leon’s removed his chainmail and ripped the sleeves of his shirt off. One is wrapped around the burn along the Gwaine’s arm, the other Leon is currently using to wipe the blood off the knight’s face and try to staunch the bleeding. Arthur squats over Percival and with a glove wipes the mud off the larger man’s face. There’s definitely a lump on his head, but otherwise he doesn’t seem to be burned, at least nowhere he can see, but his armor has holes in it, undoubtedly where the magic had burned through the protective enchantments.

Both knights are breathing, shallowly, but steadily. He’s relieved. If the bargain worked, Merlin should be waking up and going back without Balinor will be terrible enough. If the man lost his friends—more of his friends…

“Balinor’s passed the veil,” Leon states quietly without looking up. “That’s why you were able to fight.”

“He changed Destiny once. I can only guess he did so a second time to ensure I…” He bows his head. “I’m part of a prophecy, one he unraveled. I think…I think he tried to restore part of it today. I’m…I don’t know. The dragon might.”

Leon finally finishes his cleaning and presses the sleeve against the long gash on Gwaine’s temple. It’s no longer bleeding profusely, but blood is still flowing. “If you hadn’t ridden out,” he starts, then stops and frowns, “he still would have, if it were an option.”

“Like son like father,” Arthur agrees. “I guess by coming here I opened that door, one that otherwise couldn’t happen.”

“Especially if it were to save Merlin,” Leon finishes.

Wet footsteps echo around them, and then Lancelot is kneeling between both knights. “How are they?”

“Hurt, but alive.” Leon reports. “Head injuries, so we won’t know until they wake up or, or we get back to Gaius.”

Lancelot nods. “We’ll give them an hour. If they aren’t awake by then we’ll have to double up on the horses, try to ride back in the storm that way. We have to inform them of Lord Balinor’s…of his passing.” He’s studiously avoiding Arthur’s gaze as he speaks.

Reaching out, Arthur places his hand on Lancelot’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. It was…that water he drank must have changed the spell. I didn’t know.” He squeezes. “The dragon didn’t say he could do that.”

Lancelot’s fists clench on his knees, before he looks up, tears unshed and his face awash with anguish. “I would have,” he whispers, “to save Merlin, I would have taken your place in a heartbeat. I don’t understand why he…couldn’t he…” He stutters on the last comment, then goes silent and looks back to the floor again.

“Maybe that’s why. Merlin will,” Arthur hesitates, then, “Merlin will need his friends, will need you now more than ever. With Will and his father both deceased, with the war ongoing, with the land.”

“The land,” Lancelot repeats, then looks up sharply. “The land. The dragon left the Perilous Lands. Without it, everything will die.”

“They have enough people there, and enough supplies, to last at least a few weeks,” Leon reports immediately. “The king has always wanted us prepared to retreat further from Camelot’s lands, go into hiding with the druids if necessary. It won’t be an immediate concern.”

Lancelot turns his head towards Leon, seems to take a measure of his words, then nods once. “Good. He’ll, he’ll have some time to recover before he has to do…something.” His attention turns back to the knights, leaning forward to examine Percival more closely.

With a squelch, Arthur pushes himself back up. “I’m going to do a quick perimeter check. Make sure the witch hasn’t left anything behind.”

Lancelot briefly looks up at him. “Be careful, Arthur. If we went through all this and you-“

In response, Arthur draws the new sword, and it seems to shine even in the dull firelight. “I know. I will.” He first goes to the right door and sticks his head into the next room, which happens to be a hallway that runs past the other door as well. He lets his eyes adjust to the even darker environment before walking carefully to the right. On the outside, there was a tower on either side of the main hall, and this hallway seems to connect them. It’s a large passage, easily wide enough for six, seven people to walk down side-by-side. There’s no tapestries, no armors on the wall, but the doors into the inner area reveal shadows of other buildings, also around the courtyard. The hallway may connect everything around, but without better light, he’s not going to risk exploring.

The doorway into the tower reveals a spiral staircase, some tables, and many patches of water from holes in the roof. Despite that, it looks like it’s been untouched for years so he’s confident there’s nothing there. Turning around, he heads towards the other tower on the left side. This one has a door, currently closed. He debates opening it, then decides against it, in case there’s a creature or trap on the other side. He can also see that, a little farther, the hall does turn at a near right-angle down another corridor. For the moment, though, all he can hear is the patter of rainwater against stone and ground, but no immediate signs of danger. He heads back to the knights, checking in momentarily, before crossing the hall and looking out into the inner courtyard.

There’s another circle of stones, these pillars appearing narrower and, squinting, he thinks he can see carvings on this set. Instead of a simple pedestal, there’s a full table in the center of the ring. Out front, it looked newer, nowhere near as reverent and old as this set up. He wonders if Nimueh created it specifically for her magic, or maybe specifically for him. A quick way to kill him, without him having to pass through what are undoubtedly sacred halls to the Old Religion.

So much for that effort.

He doesn’t see any more wyverns, but he doesn’t doubt there’s some here somewhere. The dragon couldn’t have scared them all off. Unless they were beasts conjured by the sorceress, in which case, maybe he’s worrying for nothing.

Satisfied with his inspection, he’s just about to return to the knights when entire swaths of rain stop and then pour across the courtyard. He raises his sword as the great dragon lands gracefully enough that he doesn’t knock over any of the pillars and his tail seems to curl around the base of the table. Its wings come up and act as a shelter for its head, which it lowers to the doorway and, with a smile, says, “Well done, princeling.”

His hand not holding the sword clenches into a fist. “You. You lied to me.” He wants to yell, but he doesn’t, keeps his voice as cold and harsh as his father’s.

“I don’t lie, Prince.” There’s a darkness in the creature’s voice, a threat. “I am a dragon, a being of magic and Destiny.” The head rears back almost regally. “I did not lie. Your life, Arthur Pendragon, was the only cure for the Questing Beast’s bite.”

Arthur grits his teeth and growls, “Balinor is dead and I live. You _lied._ ”

The growl from the dragon rumbles through the hallway, makes the pillars on the ground quiver. “You think I desired this, Pendragon?” There’s menace when he bears his teeth. “You think I desired the death of my friend?!” He roars, harsh and deafening, shaking the very castle. “He was a dragonlord. He was _my_ dragonlord!” The head quickly drops so that the nose is inches away from Arthur. “You know _nothing_ of what I’ve lost!”

The heat, both from the words and the beast’s breath, force Arthur to take a step back. He hears pounding feet and then Lancelot and Leon are beside him, both with swords drawn. Though Leon looks wary, the anger in Lancelot’s gaze is what worries him, and Arthur reaches out to touch the knight’s arm, to hold him back from doing something as foolish as fighting a dragon. Even if it would avenge his fallen king.

It seems to work, except the man can’t help snapping back with, “Then why did you let it happen?! You told Arthur to come here! You brought the King! You enchanted his sword!”

There’s a gnashing of teeth that makes all three of them back up, but then Kilgharrah seems to pull away from the animalistic responses, turns his neck so one of his eyes can look directly at them. “I told Arthur the cure,” he rumbles. “Whether he chose to come or not was of his own will.” More darkly, he continues with, “I had no choice when Balinor learned the truth. He ordered me here, ordered the enchantment, ordered me away until the battle was over.” His neck pulls back, his head turning down. “I did not _let_ this happen, just as, years ago, I didn’t _let_ him become the Fisher King.”

Arthur hesitates, then says, “So I was right. He changed Destiny again. So that I could live.” He remembers the man’s words, and can’t help but continue with, “So that I could help Merlin.”

“Yours Destiny and Merlin’s were always entwined, princeling. When Balinor took the Perilous Lands, that Destiny was altered, to what future, not even I could know. Some Destinies, some prophecies, remained unchanged.” Kilgharrah looks at them again. “The curse of the Perilous Lands could only be lifted by the death of the Fisher King, when he would be slain by the Once and Future King.”

Arthur inhales sharply at that. Once and Future King. By Balinor’s words, _he’s_ the Once and Future King, and that means, all those years ago when Balinor saw the future and took on the mantle of the Fisher King, he’d known about Arthur. He’d must’ve known who Arthur was, and that his arrival at the court would mean Balinor’s death.

He’d still welcomed Arthur, still tried to protect him.

He couldn’t imagine his father being so noble. He couldn’t imagine _himself_ being that brave.

Choking on his words, he asks, “He ordered you. You…tried to prevent his Destiny?”

This time, when the dragon meets his eye, he can see the sorrow in the golden light. “Some prophecies can be changed, even without great magic, should circumstances align. Had he not used the Waters of Avalon, ensured Destiny continued on course, this is one of them.”

“So you manipulated Arthur,” Leon spits, “convinced him to die to save your master!”

“I convinced no one, knight. I merely told the truth, so he knew all options laying before him.” The wings tremble and a wave of water cascades off them around the dragon’s body. “I have no desire for the princeling’s death, but I admit,” he looks Arthur up and down, “knowing Balinor would be safe upon your demise was a comfort to me.”

Arthur can feel Lancelot trembling even before he turns his head. The knight is barely holding on, between his anger, his grief, his honor… Arthur reaches out and carefully pries the sword from Lancelot’s hand. “Leon,” he asks quietly.

“Sire-“

“Please.”

With reluctance, Leon sheathes his sword and guides Lancelot back into the main room. The knight struggles for a moment, but eventually relents. It’s only a few moments later when Arthur hears chainmail hit stone, and an anguished sob escape from room. He turns his attention back to the dragon. There’s a part of him that feels exactly like Lancelot. Another that’s just as angry as Leon.

There’s a quieter, more honest part, though, that can’t help but understand the dragon’s feelings. In the same position, he couldn’t help but admit he’d feel the same way.

Eventually he confronts Kilgharrah with, “You didn’t lie, but you manipulated me.”

“You sought a cure. I provided one.”

“You knew I’d come here, make the exchange.”

“I’d hoped, but make no mistake, Arthur: the decisions were yours and yours alone.” A little more softly, he adds, “Just like Balinor’s were his, and his alone.”

Balinor. Who knew and didn’t tell Arthur. Who knew and still saved him.

Who believed in the Once and Future King, and what he might mean.

“Merlin is meant for me,” he mutters, then louder he says, “Merlin is meant for the Once and Future King.”

“That’s right.”

_So that all of Albion can unite under the Once and Future King,_ he remembers Balinor saying. “The prophecy, our Destiny, whatever it is, it’s to unite lands?”

“Destiny once said you were to usher in a new era of peace and prosperity, of justice and equality for all peoples of the land. Magic would be restored and you, Arthur Pendragon would be the greatest High King of all time.”

“Once said,” Arthur focuses on.

“The prophecies may still hold some accuracies.” Kilgharrah’s eyes glow brightly and Arthur takes an instinctive step back. “I can no longer see what Destinies lie ahead. Too much has changed, too many have lived or died that shouldn’t. Your Destiny is yours to shape.”

“With Merlin.”

“Even that is uncertain. Before, your Destinies were bound together, two sides of the same coin. Then you became enemies. Now, though bound, it may not be because he serves you. For a time, you were his death.”

“The Questing Beast.”

The dragon shifts its wings and another wave of water slides down. “And so entwined as you are, your Destinies are being re-forged into whatever you two make of it.” He side-eyes Arthur. “What will you make of it, princeling?”

Arthur would love to say he knows, that he can return to the tower and figure out how he wants the future to be. Instead, all he can think about is Balinor, and the pall his death will have over the Perilous Lands. “He didn’t really show the rest of magic what happened, did he?”

“That power you felt was Destiny reweaving itself. Many will remember it from years past, and wonder what has transpired.”

Arthur nods slowly. “Then that’s what matters first. Merlin—everyone deserves to know what transpired here, and have proper time to mourn Balinor.”

“And then,” the dragon asks, curiosity obvious in his tone.

“Then I speak with Merlin, and I keep my promise to Will, and Balinor.”

He will protect Merlin. He’ll bring peace between Camelot and the Perilous Lands.

That’s the Destiny he’ll forge.

That’s the Destiny he wants.

He hopes Merlin will, as well.


	17. Chapter 17

The dragon leaves shortly after his declaration, returning to ensure no one panics at Merlin’s awakening with his knights and father gone. There’s a part of Arthur that wants to ask if there’s a faster way back to the Perilous Lands, but in this weather, he’s not sure taking an unknown route would be better or worse. Once departed, Arthur looks over the courtyard one last time, then heads back to join the knights. Leon is by Percival, who’s rolled onto his side and is cradling his head, both talking quietly. Gwaine is still out, so Arthur looks for the last knight.

Lancelot is kneeling by Balinor again, head bowed and shoulders shaking. As he walks he makes enough noise to alert the knight he’s approaching. When he arrives, he kneels next to Lancelot and silently offers him his sword back.

The knight shakes his head. “No. I have failed in my duties. To protect Merlin, to protect Balinor. Even you.”

Arthur doesn’t pull the weapon away. “Kilgharrah was right. I—and Balinor—made our choices.”

“He manipulated you.” There’s a vehemence there, an admonishment on Arthur’s behalf.

“Probably. But then, I wanted to know if there was any cure for Merlin, a way to repay what he’d done for me, and a way to keep the Perilous Lands from falling. He only provided me the answer.” He hesitates a moment before continuing with, “Balinor knew the cure, knew it the first day most likely. He chose not to tell me, to tell anyone.” Now he wonders if that withholding was uncertainty about his own Destiny, or just trying to come to terms with his upcoming death.

Lancelot’s hands, resting on his knees, curl into fists. “I would’ve volunteered,” he mutters. “He knows I would’ve, for Merlin’s sake.”

“There were other forces at play, you heard that.”

“I don’t trust that…that _creature’s_ word _._ Not after what he’s done.”

Arthur can’t fault him on that. “Balinor didn’t have to come here, didn’t have to change Destiny the way he has. He chose to sacrifice himself for me, for Merlin.” He shifts his grip so he can put the sword gently on the ground in front of Lancelot. “Balinor trusted you to be his First Knight, he trusted you to protect Merlin when he could not be there.” He shifts his gaze to the fallen king. “He can never be there again. Would you abandon your sire’s trust in you now, when Merlin will need you the most?”

He reaches up to squeeze Lancelot’s shoulder. “You may feel unworthy, but you’re not. Not to Balinor and, until he says otherwise, not to Merlin.” He pulls his hand away and stands up. Quietly, he adds, “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you’ve failed your duties, and the Perilous Land’s court, not to mention the battlefield, will be much diminished without your presence and guidance.” With that he turns and goes back to the other knights.

Percival is now sitting up, staring, at first Arthur thinks, at him; before he realizes no, the man is staring at Balinor. Ducking out of his line of vision, he joins Leon beside Gwaine, who is showing signs of stirring from the pained moans and wincing eyes. Leon glances at him through the fringe of his hair. “He’ll be in pain, and the riding won’t help his injuries, but he’s experienced worse and ridden farther.”

Arthur nods, then whispers, “I chose to come here, to offer myself.”

Leon turns his head just enough to hide his expression. He checks the burns on Gwaine’s arm for a minute, then whispers back, “I know, Sire. I don’t agree with your choice, but I know.”

“You’re not alone in that,” he answers. “You all made your feelings quite clear on the shore.”

“You’re important, Arthur. And I would feel as Lancelot does, if you had…if the trade had worked.”

“A king must do what is best for his people.” He looks into the darkened hearth over Leon’s shoulder. “Camelot…my father has wronged so many denizens of the Perilous Lands, some of which were once our own. I could not let that dishonor lie, not when I could stop it, do one last thing to protect them.”

Leon reaches over and grasps his hand, drawing his attention back to the knight. The man is looking directly into his eyes. There’s pain and a sense of pride in his gaze. “And that is why,” he says with his usual volume, “I have always kept my pledge to you. You will be a great king some day.”

“If Merlin doesn’t turn him into a rabbit,” Gwaine mutters from beneath them, and they both startle. He’s giving them a bleary look through hazed eyes. “He’s gonna be angry you did this.” He winces, glances at his injured arm. “Gonna be angry I got hurt, too. Bugger. Hate it when he yells.”

“Serves you right,” Leon says, “charging her like a madman.”

“Worked, didn’t it? We won.” He glances from Arthur to Leon and back again. “Didn’t we?”

Arthur takes a breath, but before he can explain Lancelot says gravely, “At a great cost.” When Arthur turns to look up at the knight, his sword is sheathed in his belt and his eyes are red, but he looks like a knight again. “Percival, if you’d explain. I...the Prince and I need to talk.”

Arthur nods and immediately gets to his feet, following Lancelot towards the door they came in from. He fights the wince caused from Gwaine’s cry of “No!” behind him. Lancelot looks out onto the Isle from the left side of the doorway, so Arthur leans against the right side, looking at the knight. It’s another minute of Gwaine’s cursing before Lancelot says, “We have to get back. Merlin must be...he’ll need us.”

Arthur nods and looks outside. It’s still pouring, but not nearly as intensely as it was a little earlier. Unfortunately, it’s dangerous to ride at night, and in a storm like this it could very well be lethal. He knows Lancelot doesn’t want to wait until morning, but they have little choice. “At first light,” he finally agrees.

There’s more silence, followed by, “What will you do, once you return to your camp?”

“Call a ceasefire,” he answers immediately. “I’ll bring news back that…that the Fisher King is dead.” He grimaces. “That I slayed him. That should fulfill the requirements for my Ascension. If my father still desires war…” He takes a deep breath. “I’ll tell him the dragon is out for revenge but can’t enter Camelot’s lands. As long as he believes our troops will be exterminated immediately, it should restrain his desire for battle.”

Lancelot bobs his head in acknowledgement. “And when you’re king?”

“Peace.” He reaches out to let the water wash over his glove. “No more needless blood spilled.”

“There will be others. Nimueh was the most powerful, but she wasn’t the only one.”

Arthur knows. There’ll continue to be attempts on his life, on his father’s, by magic users. His change of heart will mean nothing to them, possibly even when he rules Camelot. Uther has created a mistrust and hatred that may last for generations. He can only attempt to repair the damage, to show he’s serious about peace. The Destiny to be High King may be gone, but he can at least forge a path of peace between Camelot and those his father has wronged.

“I won’t let them sway me,” he finally answers. “This week…the sacrifices made…” He doesn’t finish. He doesn’t need to finish. “I hope one day, Lancelot, to see you in my court and greet you as a knight and friend, not an enemy.”

“It is a good hope,” is the response. “Let’s hope Destiny allows it to come to pass,” he adds bitterly. After another minute, he says, “You should get some sleep. I’ll take first watch. We’ll wake you for the early morning shift.” He finally looks at Arthur from the corner of his eye. “Assuming you won’t run off again.”

Arthur wants to smirk and respond wittily, but he just can’t, not with all that’s transpired, all that’s been revealed. “On my word as a Prince and Knight.” The grim smile he gets is both an acknowledgement and dismissal all in one. When he heads back to the other three knights, Gwaine is refusing to look at him, curled on his uninjured side and keeping his arm carefully elevated. His back is against Percival’s once again reclined body, and the larger man appears to be sleeping.

He explains the situation briefly to Leon before finding a wall not in Gwaine’s immediate line of sight and lies down, one hand on his sword, and tries to sleep. He’s slept in armor before, but he’s not sure tonight of all nights he’ll get any rest. Again, he must get some because Leon is shaking him awake what seems to be minutes later but was apparently six or seven hours. There’s a whispered exchange that they’ve let Percival and Gwaine sleep, to try and recover more before the ride back, before Leon’s sitting beside him and closing his eyes.

He’s seen the knight sleep sitting up before, and doesn’t mind being the comfortable surface Leon leans against to stay upright. He spends the time looking over the knights. Gwaine and Percival are remarkably still, probably because of their wounds. Lancelot seems to be having a fitful rest, and Balinor… He can’t help but stare at Balinor’s body for much of his shift, ears alert for any sounds beyond the continuous downpour.

The last time he changed Destiny, he was careful, crafted a very specific way to prevent deaths and save as many as he could. People still died, though, from Percival’s village to Arthur’s own knights. This time was calculated, yes, but also had a sense of recklessness about it. He can’t help but wonder what will happen, what else will change. Kilgharrah says he can forge his own Destiny now, but forge it into what? How much will still happen despite the changes? How much will still occur no matter what he does to try and change it?

Balinor had the advantage of seeing the future last time, of building a new Destiny around what he didn’t want to happen. Arthur has no such insight, and he’s a little worried about screwing this up. He wants peace, but what if by doing so he only invites more destruction upon Camelot, upon Albion? That mention of High King tantalizes him, a future that seems impossible. It sounds like when Destiny was rewritten he’s given that up, but how did he win it in that other future? With blood or with treaties?

Did Balinor’s second shift of Destiny mean he could be High King again? Or was he fated to only ever rule Camelot, or not even expand his kingdom?

He’d never believed in Destiny before. His father always said Pendragons forged their own future, Destiny be damned. Now though he’s met someone who truly forged their own future, and has offered Arthur the chance to do the same. Without any guidance or understanding of _how_.

Part of him wants to simply go back to acting and believing as he previously did. That it was the best way to create a new future for himself. The problem is, there were parts of that path he walked he doesn’t want to walk again, and doesn’t want to risk repeating for fear of more war, more damage done to innocent people.

What he needs, he admits mentally with a sigh, is a magical advisor to help him. Ironically—or unfortunately—he’ll be returning to a home where that will be the one source of help he has no chance of obtaining. While he’s trying to craft his new Destiny.

Bugger.

The sun rising—well, the sky lightening behind the clouds—disrupts his thoughts. He’d like to let the knights sleep a little longer, but it must be chaos back at the tower, even with Kilgharrah delivering a message. Assuming he delivers it. Arthur really isn’t sure where he should stand with the dragon at this point. At least soon it won’t be something he has to consider anymore. He’ll be back in Camelot, trying to create some sort of ceasefire until he can either convince his father or extend an olive branch himself.

It only takes a gentle nudge to awaken Leon. Lancelot jerks awake at the sound of his footstep, and the bruises beneath his eyes bespeak of little rest despite his sleep. Lancelot awakens Percival, who turns to Gwaine, careful to not touch the burned arm or head injury. The larger knight, at least, looks more clear headed this morning. He vaguely remembers Gaius saying that’s a good sign, that there should be no lasting damage.

All of their supplies are across the lake, with their horses, so they cover themselves as best they can to venture out into the still wet day. Lancelot lifts Balinor, only allowing Percival to help him despite the offers from the others. Arthur doesn’t offer. He knows that this is the solemn duty of the First Knight, and he’d never dare breach that honor.

Glinting in the little light shining from the sky is the Cup of Life, the one Arthur dropped when he turned to run from the sorceress. It’s a powerful relic, one he’s not sure he wants to leave on this Isle. Another sorceress, like Morgause might find it and misuse its power. As he moves to pick it up, Leon gets there first, snatching it from the ground. He attempts to hide it, but Arthur can see the fear, the nervousness, of some lingering magic taking his life. Rather than try and take it, he nods appreciatively and continues towards the dock.

The boat, surprisingly, is damp, but unflooded. Or perhaps not so surprisingly, what with it being magic, he muses. It still holds their weight, even with Balinor, and they cross the lake quickly, almost as if it’s eager to carry them away from the Isle. Which is absurd, because a boat can’t have feelings or a mind. At least, he thinks it can’t. Can objects of magic have a mind? It’s something to find out. Another time. When he isn’t returning to a court that, at best, will be hostile to his appearance.

Their horses are where they left them, if soaked. The rations are barely edible, but they eat the meager food and pull out the cloaks Gwaine, or maybe Percival, thoughtfully packed. It adds another five pounds to his shoulders as it soaks, but at least he can finally hide his head from the weather. Again, Lancelot refuses to allow anyone else to take the King, and rides with him carefully secured in front of him in the saddle.

They ride steadily, if not as fast as they did coming out. They don’t stop for the midday meal, either. Arthur knows he’s not the only one who notices that, the farther they get form the Isle, the less water falls from the sky. The clouds aren’t vanishing, they’re just releasing less and less moisture. It could be whatever unnatural magic summoned the weather is diminishing, but he can’t help but suspect it’s him—them—getting away from a bastion of the Old Religion that’s causing the change.

It’s a couple hours past midday, he estimates, when the tower comes into view. Percival calls for them to stop and sidles his mount up to Lancelot’s. He pries the damp cloak off of himself and awkwardly holds it out. Lancelot has to stare at it a minute before he gets it, takes it and covers the King, hiding his face.

Hiding the fact that he’s dead.

Knowing he’s dead will be a devastating blow to the morale to the people. If his subjects actually witnessed his return as a corpse, while Arthur rides surrounded by the King’s favored knights…

Just before they reach the wall the rain stops altogether, though the sky is still dark and rumbling, the threat of a further deluge hanging over their heads. Before they pass the first guard house, Arthur rides to Lancelot’s side and pulls his hood off, sitting at attention and drawing on all his training to appear as an impeccable honor guard. Gwaine immediately takes up position to Lancelot’s left side, doing the same thing. Leon and Percival pull up behind them, guarding their flank.

An honor guard for the King.

The courtyard within the walls is all but deserted, the ground a disgusting muck brown from the long night of water. There are a couple of knights, ones not wearing any standards, keeping watch from the remains of an overhang. They approach cautiously at first, but when they get close enough, Arthur can tell they recognize them, especially the way the smaller one immediately runs off. Undoubtedly, to inform the court of their return.

Lancelot doesn’t acknowledge the knight, but a stern wave from Gwaine has the man hesitating, then stepping back, letting them pass. As they round the tower, Arthur can see more people looking out from the few buildings still intact. Some, mostly the knights, step outside, seem to want to follow them. He isn’t sure what keeps them back, but they must sense something about the procession, even without magic.

Arthur keeps his face as neutral as possible, not wanting to give anything away.

When they reach the front of the tower, there’s a few footmen already waiting to take their horses. Arthur dismounts immediately, but waits before entering the tower. He may be the reigning authority among these knights, but Lancelot’s duty comes first. It takes nearly five minutes to hide that the cloaked King isn’t just sleeping as they get him down. Percival helps the illusion, ‘helping’ to hold up the man.

And then they step inside. Arthur keeps a full pace behind Lancelot, and Percival falls back to join him once the Captain has a firm hold on the King.

It’s warmer inside, and brighter thanks to the fires. There are no tables, no thrones, but the court is lined up as if they were there. Hunith stands beneath the staircases, the Golden Trident in her hand. Gwen is beside her, barely hiding the tears in her eyes while Elyan seems to be comforting her. Gaius and Alice are to the right, him looking somber and her glaring at them. On the other side is Morgana, her hands wrung together and glaring at Arthur, looking him over repeatedly, as if confirming he’s real. Beside her is Alator, the man with the iron staff, who has a mask of unreadability as he looks over the five of them. His eyes lingering longest on Arthur. Then he’s walking towards them, past them, stepping outside and, with the slamming of his staff to the ground, shuts the doors without looking back.

Of Merlin, there is no sign.

Arthur bites back his worry at that as Lancelot takes one step forward, then another, a third. He’s halfway across the room before he stumbles. Gwen almost jumps up, but Elyan stops her. The knight pauses, then falls to one knee, never letting Balinor out of his grasp. Ever so carefully, he lowers the King down, pulling the hood away from the cloak. Hunith doesn’t make any sound, but he can see the tears she’s fighting back as Lancelot bows, prostrating himself before them.

“It is my…my solemn duty to report.” Lancelot swallows, his voice rough. “King Balinor passed the veil last night.” Seeming to gather himself, he says more firmly, “Nimueh’s spell has caused this tragedy. Reparation has been exacted.”

_Reparation._ Arthur wouldn’t put an execution quite like that, but he has to admit it’s a clean way of explaining it.

“And what, Sir Lancelot,” Hunith says, her emotions barely hidden by the strength in her voice, “were you and the knights doing beyond the Perilous Lands with our guest?” She doesn’t take her eyes off Lancelot. “What was so dangerous that it led to the King, the Great Dragon, to leave our lands?”

It hits Arthur then: she knows. She knows all about what’s happened. Kilgharrah must have told her, so why the formality of an interrogation? There’s no one here.

When his gaze meets Morgana’s, he gets it. Those with magic to See, they must be able to watch this, or have the ability to look back and witness this. It’s a show for the troops, for the people, so that they know what happened. What their king died from.

Who their king died for.

Lancelot, holding himself as still as marble, answers humbly, “Prince Arthur learned of a way to cure Merlin, a quest he alone could undertake. I swore a duty to protect him while at our court, and could not let him leave without escort.”

“Four knights, for one Prince?”

The conviction in his voice is beyond reproach when he reports, “To protect the one method that may return Merlin to us, I would have led an army.”

A watery smile tugs at the Queen’s face, before she nods and continues with, “And why was the court not informed?”

Lancelot swallows again. “The King…the King, though yearning for his son, would not risk my oath of protection nor Merlin’s wishes to protect Prince Arthur. This quest could have cost the Prince his life, and the King would never ask a guest to…”

Arthur steps forward and bows at the waist, as formal as he can while sopping wet and dripping on the floor. “Your Highness, if I may-“

Her head snaps to him, and from the harsh glance he knows to immediately stops talking. He instead bows again, and holds the position, watching the proceedings through his eyelashes.

Without looking up, Lancelot seems to know when the Queen’s gaze returns to him. “To request permission from the court may have taken time, time Merlin may not have had. The Prince was quite insistent, to repay his life debt, and because Merlin could help protect the people.”

“And yet my husband found out anyway, and then he broke the most sacred tenant and left these lands with the dragon. Why?”

“He knew the cost, and sought,” he can practically hear Lancelot’s mind seeking the right words, “he sought to protect the Prince from the danger. The High Priestess Nimueh was waiting for us, aware that Arthur was vulnerable. Prince Arthur was able to retrieve the cure, but we could not stop her from attacking. We tried, but…the King protected us, knowing it may have been the only way to save Merlin, save the Perilous Lands from devastating attacks.”

_From Camelot_ is unsaid, but Arthur knows everyone is thinking it.

Before Hunith can continue, the doors behind them thud, as if a battering ram had struck it. Even Lancelot turns, still crouched, one hand going to his sword. There’s a second thud, and then Alator crashes through the wood, flying straight into Leon and sending both of them to the floor nearly three feet away.

Arthur turns with the knights, all of them drawing their swords as the Black Knight stands there, a grin in his horribly raspy voice as he says, “Prince Arthur. You and I have unfinished business.”

“So do I,” a voice growls from behind them. Some invisible force seems to grab the creature by the waist and fling it back outside. Turning slightly, he spots a familiar figure on the stairs, pale hand outstretched and eyes burning gold.

_Merlin._


	18. Chapter 18

It’s a moment of stillness, as if time completely stops when Arthur’s eyes meet Merlin’s. He’s wearing new clothes, cloth trousers and a blue shirt beneath a brown leather vest. The gaunt, sickly look is completely gone from his face, and his cheekbones stand in stark relief, looking more like a strength of birthright, rather than of illness. He’s exactly as ghostly as when he was asleep, but the warlock has always had that pale aura about him.

The man’s mouth is a grim line, but Arthur gets the sense that it’s more grave and accepting, rather than angry and dangerous. In deference, Arthur tilts his chin down, ever so slightly, acknowledging the magical prince. In response, Merlin does the same.

Then the moment’s broken, and time rushes forward as the choked sound of someone dying catches their attention. He turns towards the source and can’t help the strangled sound that escapes from him.

Alator is obviously dead, a shard of wood from the door impaling his chest.

Impaling Leon, too.

From the corner of his eye he registers Merlin moving swiftly down the stairs, most of Arthur’s attention is on Leon. The knight chokes again, then rolls enough to dislodge himself from the spike of the wood going through his back. “Leon, don’t-“

It’s too late. Momentum drags Leon to the floor with a metallic clang. Arthur kneels by him, pressing his hand against the wound. It’s bleeding too freely, too quickly. It’s a fatal wound. “Keep still! I’ve got…Gaius will help you.” His head jerks up, looking around the room for the physician. “Gaius!”

“S-sire. I-I’m…I wish…”

“Water,” Morgana calls suddenly. “Gwen, I need water!” And then she’s kneeling in front of them. “Can you raise his head? He has to drink.”

Arthur nods, keeping one hand uselessly on the wound as he rolls the knight over slightly. Morgana cradles the man’s head, tilts it up slightly. “Hold on, Leon. Just a few minutes.” Her words are calm, but Arthur can hear the underlying panic, see the fear in her eyes.

“Here, Morgana.” Gwen kneels beside her former mistress with a waterskin.

“Pour it, quickly.” There’s a golden cup in her hands, and it takes Arthur a moment to recognize that the metallic sound from earlier wasn’t Leon, but the Cup of Life falling to the floor. The Cup of Life that Morgana is holding, that Gwen is filling.

“No!” He grabs Morgan’s wrist in a bruising vice. “He’d never want you to sacrifice your life!”

Worry turns to a familiar arrogance as she glares at him. “I’m not as foolish as you! I know what I’m doing. I recognize the cup, the druids instructed me in its use.” When he refuses to release her, the glare softens. “Trust me, Arthur. I can do this.”

After a frustrating second, he reluctantly lets go. He winces slightly at the darkened skin he leaves behind, but with a shake of her head she’s already dismissing it. Gwen looks between the two of them, then finishes filling the cup. Morgana brings the cup to Leon’s lips and Arthur tilts his head up. She doesn’t make him drink. Instead, she stares at the water and chants, “Butan þæt cwalu. Hrðe þon aidlian. Hrðe þon eðian. Bot ond tile. Butan þæt cwalu. Hrðe þon aidlian. Hrðe þon eðian. Bot ond tile.”

There’s a soft glow to her eyes, and then a second voice, Merlin’s voice, joins her in the chanting. Gaius and Alice too a moment later. Arthur glances up and finds Merlin standing beside Hunith, and notes that though he’s helping Morgana, Merlin’s hand is outstretched again towards the door. He wants to look, but knows if he does he might lose his grip on Leon. He won’t jeopardize this chance to save him.

Morgana tilts the chalice up, and Arthur whispers, “Drink, Leon. Drink.” And then, unable to help himself, “Please work. I don’t want to lose you.” Even when he hated him, there was a part of Arthur that had never wanted Leon to die, even on the battlefield. Before he’d called that part of himself weak, traitorous. Now he knows better, embraces that feeling.

The blood flow beneath his palm seems to slow, then stop. He sucks in a sharp breath, but Morgana continues to chant, and even though some of the water is escaping from his mouth, Arthur can see the man swallowing, can feel Leon’s still breathing. When the cup is empty Morgana leans back and a hand on his shoulder startles him. Looking up he discovers Gaius and Alice. “He’ll sleep and heal,” the physician reassures him. “We’ll take care of him.”

Arthur blinks once, twice, then gently places Leon on the floor and nods. He reaches across briefly, and Morgana doesn’t flinch as he grabs her wrist, gently, carefully. She lowers her eyes, then they harden as they look over his shoulder, towards the door.

Arthur absorbs the accusing glare, the anger, and stands up, wiping his bloody hand against his leggings. He turns, picking up the sword he dropped in his rush to Leon, and faces the Black Knight. He’s standing in the doorway, feet shoulder-width apart, sword tip planted between his feet and hands resting on the hilt. Gone is the anonymous greyed helmet, most likely knocked off when Merlin cast him out of the room. Arthur takes the opportunity to study his opponent, this undead abomination.

The skin is wrinkled and shrunk, and the eyes and teeth seem to have sunk back into the skull. His nose is half-decayed and his head is totally devoid of hair. When he sees Arthur looking, he laughs lowly, darkly. It’s like his jaw distends from his face, as if it’s not completely attached any more, and though the teeth are intact, the tongue is blackened and as deformed as his nose.

This close, he’s able to make out the crest on the shield, and realizes it’s not just a silver bird, but a phoenix. He also realizes that it’s familiar, and remembers his mother’s brother, Tristan, bore that crest. He also remembers the sorcerer who accused Uther of murdering his uncle. The sorcerer had claimed to be a friend to the de Bois family, and at the time Arthur had believed his father when he said the sorcerer was lying, trying to manipulate them.

Now, he’s pretty sure the man hadn’t been lying, and there’s a good chance this is his dead uncle, back to exact his revenge on Uther by killing him.

He takes a few steps back, not taking his eyes off the creature, until he’s standing beside Merlin. The hairs on the back of his neck raise at the feeling of power the man is emanating, but he ignores his instincts and focuses on the situation at hand. “Can’t you just…magic him away? Have the dragon eat him or burn him?”

Merlin snorts. “That’s a wraith, fueled not just be magic, but the hate of the person it used to be. Even the fires of a dragon won’t stop him if his emotions are strong enough.” He mutters a second later, “Nimueh chose well. Knew I couldn’t help.”

Until he tried to, and nearly got himself killed.

Arthur straightens his shoulders and approaches the doorway. The Black Knight doesn’t bother trying to enter, and there’s a barely there golden shimmer, a magical shield keeping him at bay. At least, for the moment. He stops just beyond sword striking distance and raises his chin. “What grievance do you have with me, wraith?”

There seems to be a glistening in the darkened eye sockets. “You are the child of Uther Pendragon, the man who stole my Ygraine.”

“My mother.”

“ _My_ sister!” There’s a nasty hiss as the man continues with, “He had no right to trade her life for yours!”

He thinks back to the sorcerer. “You challenged my father and died.”

“And I swore I would rise to take my revenge. I can’t reach him,” The smile is haunting and bloodthirsty. “I shall show him the agony of losing his most beloved family. I will most enjoy presenting your head to him, dear nephew.”

He holds up his sword, examines the burnished runes and feels that it desires this fight, feels Arthur’s determination to win this battle. “And you won’t stop until your vengeance is fulfilled, or you’re killed.”

Another horrible laugh. “You already know I cannot die.” Grinning, he adds, “Nothing will stop me. Even your warlock,” he sneers at the word, “can’t keep me out forever.”

Arthur narrows his eyes, then raises his chin. “Then I challenge you, Sir Tristan, to a duel.” He points. “Outside. Immediately.”

The grin he gets at that almost seems to dislocate the jaw from the skull, but Arthur buries how disturbing he finds it. The Black Knight turns and walks back out to the courtyard. Arthur goes to follow, and feels a hand on his shoulder. He finds Merlin glaring at him. “What’re you doing,” the sorcerer hisses.

“Ending this.” He glances at the hand and raises a pointed eyebrow.

Merlin yanks it away. “You prat. After everything we’ve done. Everything we’ve,” his breath hitches, “lost.”

Arthur lets his arrogance fade slightly at that. “I’ll not cause any more deaths from people—from enemies—trying to protect me.” Merlin flinches at the label, and Arthur lets a bit of his cockiness return. “Besides, what makes you think I can’t win?”

“He’s immortal.”

Turning towards the door, he haughtily replies with, “We’ll see about that.”

He doesn’t look back as he exits the tower, aware that Merlin and the knights will follow. Hopefully the rest will stay safely in the tower, in case he’s wrong, and the magic in this sword is only good to kill living sorcerers like Nimueh. Rather than dwell on the thought he looks around and bites back the snarl clawing up from his throat.

There are bodies strewn about, some knights, some in druid robes, some dressed as peasants. All of them obviously dead and swept aside in a malformed path from the main doors to the bridge. Beyond the Black Knight he sees more corpses from this creature’s indiscriminate killings. He also sees a lot of movement, of other refugees of all sorts seeking shelter and trying to find those not yet dead to save. This wraith could have slaughtered everyone outside the tower, instead he merely eliminated those that got in his path it looks like.

It just solidifies his resolve that this has to end here and now. Even if he fails in this challenge, he doesn’t doubt Merlin’s wrath over the deaths of his people will be more than adequate to, if not kill the creature, banish it to somewhere it can do no harm.

The wraith seems to be enjoying the wave of fury Arthur’s experiencing at viewing his work. Arthur narrows his eyes, banishes all thoughts that this creature was once his uncle, that if he fails the knights behind him, Morgana, Gaius, all of them might be at risk. He lets his mind focus on the details of the battlefield, of the stance of his opponent. The ground is still muddy and slick, and he shifts his balance to try and prevent any loss of footing.

From behind him he hears Merlin call, “Ligfyr onbærne swiþe.” A ring of fire immediately surrounds them, and while the wraith ignores it, Arthur feels himself tense, flashing back to Edwin, to being trapped and the attempted assassination. The heat this time is even more unbearable, making him sweat immediately, and he wonders momentarily if Merlin is trying to kill him.

When he steps forward to move away from the flames at his back, his foot lands not on mud, but dried earth. He takes a second to examine the ground, and finds that the battlefield is no longer a hindrance to his fighting. He mentally thanks Merlin as the man says, “Acwence þa bælblyse,” and the flames vanish, though the heat lingers as if it were midsummer.

“Too weak to face me without a sorcerer,” Tristan mocks.

“Merely preparing the field,” Arthur replies back calmly, and with a little more volume he adds, “There’ll be no more interference, from the knights or the warlock, on my honor as a Pendragon.”

The hissing laugh sends shivers down Arthur’s spine. “Honor?” Impossibly, the face twists in rage and the wraith yells, “You Pendragons have no honor!” With that, he dashes forward, and Arthur barely blocks the first blow before dancing back, peripherally mindful of the bodies and outline of mud that seem to make the border of their small circle; approximately half the size of his training grounds back in Camelot.

This fight is different than the one Arthur had with Gwaine, which was about skill and honor and proving oneself. It’s not like the ones he’s fought on the battlefield, footmen and knights aiming to kill him while trying to survive themselves. It’s unlike any tournament, any practice, any battle he’s faced before. His enemy doesn’t care about leaving himself open for attack, knows he’s immortal and is happy to leave his side open to strike, doesn’t mind taking the risky lunge because his blows will be fatal, while his opponents can do nothing to hurt him.

Arthur takes all of that in with just the first few maneuvers of the wraith, and the first chance he gets, he ducks under the swinging sword of his opponent and manages to lance his sword through the knight’s open flank. There’s a surprised howl, like vocal cords being scrapped over coals, and then the wraith is backing off, regrouping. In his hand, the sword seems to pulse in time with his heart, a thrill that their strike was true, that they drew first blood.

And that’s what it is, even if the creature can’t bleed. Smoke is rising from the hole in the armor and Tristan seems to be re-evaluating, his dark gaze eyeing the sword in Arthur’s hand.

Arthur doesn’t give the creature time to regroup, he presses the attack, setting the wraith on the defensive for three, six, twenty heartbeats, and then a yell escapes his own voice as the dark sword pierces the edge of his right thigh. It burns, but the pain fails to distract him, in fact it sharpens his senses and he retaliates, swinging down and slamming his blade into the hamstring of the wraith.

It stumbles back as Arthur glances down, examines the wound. He’s losing blood, not too quickly, but enough to know he only has minutes before the blood-loss begins to affect his response time, before the world, so sharp and clear, will turn dull, fuzzy, until it goes black.

He tightens his grip on the sword and storms towards the wraith. Its one leg is dragging, slowing it down, and Arthur blocks a strike towards his breast with a clash, a spin, and a swipe that goes through Tristan’s shoulder. His sword-bearing shoulder. Normally, Arthur would never do something so dishonorable in combat, but there’s nothing honorable about his enemy. The bodies here and the bodies of his fallen knights demand justice.

With the ease of a skilled swordsman, the Black Knight passes his sword to the left hand, and presses the attack again, but though the blade swings with experience and deadly finesse, the body attached to it is clumsier, slower. Arthur parries the first few strikes, then overbalances in his dodge and cries out again as his armor is easily penetrated and he finds he has a sword stuck in, what feels like, his rib cage.

He stares down, then with a sharp roar slams his own sword clean through the creature’s wrist, leaving the weapon lodged in himself, and the creature defenseless. Another roar, a battle cry that he feels reverberates in his own sword, and he thrusts it straight through Tristan’s heart. His blade glows as the wraith lets out an inhuman screech very much like the Questing Beast’s, then is consumed by flame that leaves nothing, no body, no armor, just ash upon the ground.

His hand trembles, and he falls back one step, then two, and then just falls. He feels hands catch him and someone calling his name, before he passes out.

_No more deaths,_ he thinks.

The last thing he hears is, “Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare mid þam sundorcræftas þære ealdaþ æ!”


	19. Chapter 19

A stinging, burning pain in his cheek awakens Arthur and he blinks up to see the sky is still clouded over, still threatening rain, and he isn’t at all surprised to find himself still alive. Sore, but his thigh isn’t screaming at him anymore, he doesn’t feel a sword lodged in his midsection. His muscles tighten and ache, but it’s as if he did nothing more than overwork himself during training. Except his cheek.

And then Morgana is blocking his sight, and he realizes she slapped him. Refocusing his gaze, he sees her mouth is turned downward and her glare is watery. She’s furious, and he can’t really blame her. When she raises her hand a second time, he raises his own to block her, and she slaps his arm instead, a little more gently. “You pretentious arse! You nearly died! I should bloody kill you for trying to fight that thing!”

“Had to stop it somehow,” he grates out, then groans and forces himself to sit up. She doesn’t help him at all, but she’s still kneeling on the ground glaring at him, so he knows she wants to be supportive. “If I hadn’t, more would’ve died.” He shakes his head and glances around. Merlin’s nowhere to be seen, nor are the knights. “Where’s everyone?”

Morgana scowls at him for another minute, and then her arms are around his shoulders and he reaches up to pat her hands. It’s another minute before she’s finished with the hug, and though her eyes are still damp, the frown has turned from angry to grim. With a swipe at the tears tracks, she explains, “They’ve all gone to check on the people, to try and help the grieving.”

Arthur grimaces and, glancing around again, he finds the dead bodies that surrounded him and the wraith have vanished. He must’ve been out at least a couple hours. He bows his head for a moment, before quietly asking, “How’s Leon?”

“The only one left behind. He’s in the tower, sleeping. He should be completely healed when he wakes up.” She looks out towards the bridge. “I should be out there, now that you’re awake.”

Gently, Arthur takes her hand, the one he grabbed earlier. The bruise is completely gone. “I’d rather you stay here.”

She glances to their joined hands. “They’re my people, Arthur.”

“I know.” There’s no condemnation or disgust in his tone. He does understand, because he’s been in her position. “But I’ll…I have to go soon. The Black Knight is dead. Merlin is healed.” He squeezes her hand gently. “I’m needed back on the battlefield.”

“To end the war.”

“The Fisher King is dead, his lands are barren. There’s no point in pursuing this fight. Father has to see that.”

“He won’t,” she replies bitterly.

He silently agrees with her, but he has promises to keep, and he intends to keep them. Rather than verbalize the consensus, he sees his new sword lying beside him, clean and still looking like new. With his free hand, he reaches over and trails his fingers over the hilt.

Willing to go along with the unspoken topic change, Morgana authoritatively says, “Excalibur.”

“What?”

She reaches over, but doesn’t touch the weapon herself. “Weapons forged in dragon flame are unique, and like dragons, proper names grant them power.”

“And you named it for me?”

“Don’t be obtuse, Arthur. Only a dragonlord can christen these weapons.” Pulling her hand back, she adds softly, “Balinor named it, according to Merlin. A weapon whose power was made solely to be wielded by you.” She smiles sadly. “Elyan forged it in honor of his father, when Gwen told him about…about Tom’s execution. He’d always said it was his best-made weapon.”

Arthur can’t help but agree with that sentiment. “Why did Balinor enchant-“ at her cross look, he corrects himself, “-choose to imbue this weapon with the dragon’s power?”

She lets out a sigh at his question. “It was forged with grief and pain and love along with the best effort Elyan could put forth. It was…it had an inherent quality of strength that meant it could withstand the power of a dragon. If it were just an ordinary sword, it wouldn’t be able to contain the magic used on it, and it would break.”

Arthur picks up the blade and looks it over with a critical eye for a long minute before tucking it back into his scabbard. There’s a part of him that feels guilty for taking something that means so much to Elyan and Gwen, but he still remembers Balinor’s words, _“It is meant for you_ , _”_ and the weight of that phrase resonates too deeply for him to dismiss.

_“He is meant for you”_ resonates as well, but he’s still not entirely clear what that means for him and Merlin, and he’s not sure he really wants to examine it, either.

With a grunt, he pushes himself to his feet, and offers a hand to Morgana, who accepts and rises far more gracefully. Glancing back to the bridge, he startles a bit to find Merlin there, looking exhausted and heading straight for them. He exchanges a brief look with his half-sister, then kisses the back of her hand. “Until we meet again.”

“Stay safe, Arthur.” Quieter, she adds, “I hope you can make him see reason.”

Their father. “So do I.” And then he lets go of her, and she heads over towards the bridge. She and Merlin exchange brief words, her wrapping him in a swift hug, before she heads out to help her people. Merlin watches after her a minute, then continues towards him. “Prince Merlin.”

“Prince Arthur,” he sighs back, then walks past him and continues around the edge of the tower, toward the makeshift stables.

Arthur follows him silently, not sure what’s going on, but aware enough to recognize whatever’s about to happen, he has to be a part of it.

Once at the stables, Merlin sighs again and leans his back against the outermost stall, his eyes falling closed. “You’re a clotpole, you know that?”

“Is that even a real word?” He stands a few feet away, crossing his arms to lean his shoulder against the same surface. “And you haven’t a leg to stand on. You’re a bit of an idiot.”

The warlock opens one eye to glare at him. “Prat.”

“Arse.”

“Cabbage head.”

“Dollophead.”

“Now who’s making up words,” Merlin fires back.

“I’m the Prince of Camelot,” he says in his most authoritative voice. “It’s my royal prerogative.”

“Royal prat.”

“You used that one already.” Merlin doesn’t snipe back, and Arthur adjusts his arms slightly, looking over the man. “Given the way you look like you’re about to keel over, I’m not surprised you’re speaking like a simpleton.”

“Used a lot of magic you toad.” Both eyes are narrowly open and glaring at him. “Trying to save people.”

That sobers Arthur a bit. “I’m sorry.” He ducks his head briefly. “I’m so sorry he attacked your people.”

Merlin shrugs and tilts his head back. “Nimueh would have sent him here after finishing with Camelot.”

“She’s dead.”

“I know. Kilgharrah told me.” He takes a deep breath, then pushes away from the wall and stands up, pivoting on his foot to face Arthur fully. Arthur mirrors the position and waits. He doesn’t have to wait long. “Lancelot told me your plan, to demand peace from your father.”

“I promised King Balinor. And,” he hesitates, “and Will.” Merlin flinches as if struck and looks away, focusing on the ground. “I’m sorry. I tried to protect him.”

“Percy said that. Will’s headstrong, if he thought he could help, could fight…” Merlin shakes his head, then carefully raises it again to focus on Arthur. “I can’t say I’m…there’s a part of me that wishes I’d never tried to help. Will, my father…”

Arthur can’t help but ask, “Why did you? You certainly didn’t have to.”

Merlin looks past his shoulder. “The Questing Beast can only be put down by bespelled weapons. You didn’t stand a chance.”

“I’m your enemy.”

Merlin keeps avoiding his gaze, but doesn’t answer for a minute. Then, reluctantly, he replies with, “You’re a good man. You hated the fighting too, but you were there every time, leading your men and fulfilling your duty. You accepted back those I healed without persecution or suspicion. And…”

“And…” Arthur prods.

Merlin finally meets his eyes again, “We have a bloody Destiny. The Questing Beast would have mucked that up and, and a change like that, one of hate and anger and death… I didn’t want to see that future. That’s what my father tried to stop when he became king.” He tilts his chin up defiantly. “If I had it to do over I’d still try to help you.”

For a long time, Arthur can’t do anything but just stare back at Merlin, processing it all. Finally, he can’t help but say, “You really are an idiot.” Merlin scowls at him. “But thank you.” He glances down, then holds out his hand, looking up through his eyelashes. “If you’re my destiny, I hope it’s one where we’re not enemies.”

Merlin sizes him up before reaching out to clasp Arthur’s arm. “I guess peace with a prat isn’t the worst destiny.” A small smile accompanies the words, washing away the insult.

Arthur grasps Merlin’s arm and again he remembers, _“He was meant for you.”_ He almost asks Merlin what those words mean, but he’s not sure now’s the right time. Granted, it’ll be years before he has another chance, but if Balinor’s comment is true, Merlin will be here to answer it even then. After a minute, he releases the warlock and glances towards the Dark Tower.

Merlin, as if reading his mind, tilts his head back the way they came. “You can wait, say goodbye to the knights, Gaius, Gwen, the lot. They’d probably prefer that.”

Arthur would too, on some level, but there’s a part of him that thinks if he does, he’ll be unable to leave the old acquaintances and new friends he’s made. Instead, he shakes his head. “I’ve been gone too long. Now that the fire is out and you’re awake, I should get going. The sooner I return to my camp the sooner I can end the bloodshed.”

Merlin opens his mouth as if he’s about to argue, but after closing and opening it a few times he simply rolls his eyes and heads around the stall into the stables. He leads out a new horse, a beautiful chestnut color that definitely is not a Camelot standard. Rather than object, though, he simply readies a saddle as Merlin rests his forehead against the animal’s and whispers something too low for him to hear.

When Merlin pulls back he strokes the horse’s nose. “I’ve shown her the fastest route back to your camp. She’ll stop about twenty minutes away, leave you to walk so she can return safely.”

“Thanks.” He finishes preparing the horse as Merlin steps back, watching him with an aura of regret. Swinging up onto the beast’s back minutes later, he looks down at Merlin can can’t help adding, “For everything. I,” he thinks a moment, “I wish I could offer more, to repay what you’ve done.”

“Peace will be a good start,” Merlin says with a smile. “Maybe drop the attitude a bit, yeah?”

“It’s not an attitude, _Mer_ lin. It’s a royal bearing.”

“Royal pain.”

With a smirk, Arthur replies, “You really can’t say things like that about me. I _am_ a visiting guest.”

“Bollocks. You’re a bloody annoying arse.” He flaps his hand in a shooing motion. “And get going before Gwaine tackles you down and makes you say a proper farewell.”

Arthur feels his smirk morph into a smile, and with a nod he turns the horse and lets her guide him quietly out from the tower’s shadow and into the woods, with no one the wiser. He denies feeling the pang in his chest at the departure, and tries to ignore how his hand migrates to the hilt of Excalibur for comfort.

Tries, and fails.

He’s not looking forward to returning to his world, to a world where Uther has killed and persecuted innocent people, where he can’t trust his own knights, where dubious allies are being courted to fight a needless war.

He’s going home, and the thought causes dread to pool in his stomach.


	20. Chapter 20

He finds, amazingly, some bread and dried fruit in the saddlebag. Merlin’s doing, undoubtedly, and after the last day he’s ravenous and doesn’t mind that the food was probably conjured by magic. The sky doesn’t clear, but once out of the initial forest, the horse starts moving at a gallop, and what took nearly a full day of walking seems to pass in a matter of hours. He isn’t sure if that’s also a spell, or if he was just exceptionally lost that first day.

Whatever trail their on keeps away from the blackened areas, but he spots the results of the fire, the ash and char nearly choking him at times. He draws his tunic up from beneath his armor to cover his mouth and nose, but it does little. His eyes sting and tear from the airborne detritus, but there’s nothing he can do but squint and hope his eyes wash away the worst of it. Occasionally, he sees a burned out skeleton, and he doesn’t know if it’s bandits, one of Merlin’s sorcerers, or one of his own. He doubts they belong to him, but with nothing identifying left, he can’t dismiss the possibility.

Finally, only a few hours before twilight, the horse slows to a trot, and then comes to a stop. Looking just beyond the trees, he can see the corpse of the Questing Beast, half-rotted with scavengers picking at it. No one’s come back to retrieve the bodies left behind. He expected that with the Fisher King’s forces given what was going on, but his own army should have retrieved the dead. Pellinore, Bedivere, and Owain are Knights of Camelot, and their corpses should have been retrieved, their weapons saved to return to their families to pass on to the next son in line to honor their sacrifice.

It’s not right, and not just in the way it’s dishonoring fallen warriors. Camelot should have returned. The fire never crossed the stream where the knights had died. Even if the flames had meant it was too hot to attempt a retrieval, they’d been out for at least two days now. Looking over to his encampments, he finds them abandoned, no sign that anyone is even there.

He frowns, then, feeling foolish, strokes the neck of the horse and asks, “Can you not return immediately? I may need you.” There’s a huff and whinny accompanied by a bobbing head. Grimacing, he mutters, “I don’t know what that means.” Still, he hopes it’s an affirmation and steps off the saddle, taking the reins and walking across the dried field, giving a wide berth to the magical creature’s body. In addition to his knights, there are at least fifty footmen, from both sides, some dead from claws and bite marks, but more from wounds that appear to come from a mace or morning star.

What the Black Knight first wielded when he appeared.

Looking around to confirm there’s still no one, he motions for the horse to stay as he drops the leather straps to kneel over his fallen knights. There’s nothing of Bedivere’s upper half, but one of his arms is still present almost two yards away. It’s the arm that held his sword. And the scabbard is still attached to what’s left of the waist. He collects that sword first. Pellinore and Owain are still whole, having been killed by his undead relative. Owain’s helmet is crushed, to the point where Arthur can’t even see his face. Pellinore is more difficult, his eyes open and accusing even though his chest is crushed. He takes a moment to close the man’s eyes before collecting both their swords.

He finds seven other knights dead as well. Three bear the color of Mercia, the other four either have no standards or are black to hide their true allegiance. Merlin’s knights. He gathers swords from all of them and uses the straps on both saddle bags to tie them to the saddle. He takes one last look around the field, then heads up towards where his camp was. His father wouldn’t have just called off the campaign with his disappearance, so they must be nearby somewhere, probably regrouping.

Balinor mentioned there had been some additional attacks while he’d been at the tower, so he knows they have to be close enough to press their advantage even with the forest fire. Unsurprisingly, the approximately ten-thousand men, squires, physicians, and advisors are easy to track through the lands. The horse stays with him, following his lead even though this must be far beyond what Merlin’s asked it to do. He hopes the spell for returning to the tower will still work.

He wants Merlin to have those knights’ swords. Even without his week there he knows that’s something the warlock would never leave unfinished. He’s seen that ritual too many times during their time fighting.

It’s another few hours, based on the light traveling behind the clouds, before he catches sight of a camp. He doesn’t rush in, in fact he keeps to the forest and watches for a minute. The camp’s too small. Just over half of what its compliment should be, from the number of tents and people milling about. Maybe his father divided the war camp into two, a new plan to attack on two fronts perhaps.

He won’t get any answers staying up here. Stroking the horse’s neck one last time, he draws the six swords that belong to his camp and offers a sincere yet awkward, “Thank you.” One of the horse’s hooves scrapes the ground twice, and then it’s turning around and trotting away, back the direction they came from. He smiles briefly, before hefting the weapons and walking slowly towards the camp.

Some footmen spot him first, their eyes wide as they take in his armor, his face, and then they’re running back to camp. Word spreads quickly and he’s only halfway there when Sir Geraint stumbles out of the largest tent, shock and relief on his face before he can school it into something more neutral and call out to some knights to aid the prince. It doesn’t take long before he’s surrounded, by knights, by his people, all clamoring for his attention, asking questions and calling his name and for a moment, he relaxes, getting a sense of ‘home’ he’s missed this past week.

And then Sir Vidor and Sir Caridoc are reliving him of the six swords he has and he’s being rushed through the camp and ushered to the tent Geraint came out of. He turns around and finds himself surrounded by the entire camp. Even on the edge of the encampment, he can see people streaming forward, pushing, all eager for a chance to see their missing prince again. After a minute he raises both his hands into the air, and slowly, like a ripple in a pond, silence spreads throughout the people.

When there’s near complete quiet, he calls out, “I know you have many questions, and I know many of you thought me dead. I will answer what I can in due course, but for now know this: my return is heralded by the death of the Fisher King.” There’s cacophony of surprised gasps and shocked sounds. He only continues once it quiets down again. “With the fall of its ruler, the Perilous Lands no longer pose a threat to Camelot. By this time tomorrow we shall be returning home with news of our victory.”

There’s still shock, but a lot of relief on the faces he can see. There’s also, oddly, confusion, the exchange of odd glances between knights. Knights, now that Arthur thinks about it, he’d left back to defend Camelot. Knights like Vidor, Caridoc, Geraint. They aren’t supposed to be here, yet here they are, looking pleased and unsure all at once.

Pushing that aside, he raises his hand for silence again. “Some of you may ask why we don’t push forward with their king gone. The reason is the Great Dragon, which still roams free in the land. We will return to Camelot satisfied in the knowledge that the greatest enemy to Camelot is dead, and face down the terrible beast another time.

“We have all fought well, all lost friends and kin, and I will not have you suffer time away from your families any longer. Tonight, rest, feast, and relax in the knowledge that sorcerers from the accursed land will no longer threaten us. At dawn we break camp and finally. Return. Home!” There’s a cheer from the footmen and most of the knights at his final words. The others will fall into line soon enough, or seek him out for a further explanation. That’s fine. Arthur wants to meet the current war council. He’s not seeing any of the advisors his father sent, not seeing any of Bayard’s men, and none of the knights his father recently granted authority to.

It’s leaving him unsettled.

With the cheers devolving into the people breaking up, getting bonfires started and going out to hunt, Arthur ducks back into the tent behind him and takes a deep breath, re-centering himself. When he turns around, he can’t help the smile at seeing his own belongings. His cot and trunk, the small table he uses to think at, to write notes, the mirror that, when he looks in it now, shows a face far more familiar and far less haunted than the one he remembers seeing last time.

He expects the knights to follow him, at least Geraint, but instead there’s some muted talking, and when the tent flap opens it’s not Geraint who enters, but the last person he expects to see here. “Uncle Agravaine,” he utters in surprise.

The man is exactly as Arthur remembers him, with lush dark hair and a face aged by laugh lines and worried frowns. He’d once seemed so much larger, but now that they were the same height Arthur knew it was merely the illusion of the black clothes and dark cloak held with an ornate brass clasp depicting the family crest. He’s seen his uncle compete in tournaments, surpassing all but Uther’s best knights in combat. He’s not, oddly enough, dressed in armor here, despite the fact they’re probably preparing for battle.

When he finally looks into the eyes of his mother’s brother, for a moment he sees fury and fear before it’s subsumed with genial relief and the man hugs him. “Arthur! I’m so glad—when the news came that you’d been lost to a magical beast-“

Arthur returns the hug, clapping the man’s back twice before pulling away and taking a seat at the chair by the desk. There’s a stool by the washbasin, which his uncle easily commandeers to sit by him. Just beyond the tent flap, Arthur can see Geraint standing there, on guard, keeping the revelers and doubters at bay for some time. “I know, Uncle. Fortunately, it was a beast that even the Fisher King’s people could not control.”

“You were able to defeat it?”

“No. Their warlock did. Of course, then there was the magical knight, sent to kill me.” Agravaine tenses up, but leans forward, interested. “It wasn’t summoned by the Fisher King. Apparently, there’s different groups of sorcerers, and some are just as eager for the Fisher King to fall as well as us.”

“Fascinating. Infighting among the magic users.”

That isn’t quite what he said, but he supposes that’s how Uther will read it. And his uncle is Uther’s closest advisor.

“And tell me, the Fisher King? You said you killed him?”

“When I ran to escape the forest fire, it drove me into the Fisher King’s lands. Eventually I found an isle in a lake, it seemed abandoned, but there was a sorceress and the Fisher King.” He tilts his head up haughtily. “Both lie dead.”

“This is excellent news.” There’s something just a touch off in his tone. “But why return to Camelot? Sire, this is a chance to invade and exterminate the sorcerers.”

“There are thousands of sorcerers, at least as many knights, and who knows how many footmen. Plus, as I escaped I saw the Great Dragon in flight. To invade might invite its attention, and we have no skills to fight a dragon.” He lets a frown show. “Unless Aredian knows of a way.” He deliberately glances to the flap and calls out, “Fetch Aredian!”

“No need,” his uncle contradicts, then in a lower voice he says, “Aredian is back at Camelot, guarding the King.”

“He’s a Witchfinder. He should be here, helping with the battle. You have been pressing the fight during my departure, right?” He lets some uncertainty leak into his voice.

“Arthur,” Agravaine says in a sigh, then reaches out to place a comforting hand on his knee. “When the messenger returned with news of your…apparent death, King Uther fell ill. Extremely ill. Much like his father, and father before him.”

He flinches at that. It’s mere rumors, and anyone speaking of it is immediately placed in the stocks if not lashed, but Arthur’s heard enough. His father’s ancestors, his grandfather and great grandfather, were said to lose their minds, to go mad and see their dead wives, their fallen enemies. His great grandfather supposedly leapt from the castle turrets. No one knows how his grandfather passed the veil, but there are many stories of his father entering that bedchamber, and coming out with his gloves covered in blood.

“How…does the court know?” It’s easy to let the pain and worry into his voice. It’s harder to keep the hope out, the anticipation that he can fulfil his promise to Balinor and Will far sooner than he thought he’d have to.

“Only I, his manservant, and the court physician are aware. Otherwise, the rumor is he’s heartsick with your death.”

“Then it’s imperative I return as quickly as possible. Perhaps my presence will restore the King’s health.” The words taste sour, but they’re what a worried son would say, and while he doesn’t like his father, there’s a large part of him that doesn’t want him to die. Not like that.

“Yes, of course, Sire.” His uncle ducks his head, at first Arthur thinks its respect, but he catches a flash of frustration, one he’s sure he’s not meant to see. Does that have to do with Uther, returning to Camelot, or not pressing further into the Perilous Lands? “I shall ride immediately to inform the court of your triumphant return.”

“Nonsense. Enjoy the festivities. I…I need to gather myself, after hearing such news.” He bows his own head, but watches his uncle from the corner of his eye. “You can ride off in the morn.”

“As you wish, nephew.” He bows again, then stands, pats Arthur on the shoulder, and walks out.

The last time he heard that word it was a voice filled with bile and hatred. Agravaine’s is affectionate, but he can’t help but remember the Black Knight. Tristan was his mother’s brother as well, blamed Uther for her death, and Arthur upon his resurrection. There’s now doubt in his mind of his uncle’s true loyalties. After all, both men were close to Ygraine. Agravaine had joined the court seemingly eager to aid in the efforts against the Fisher King.

Was he using it as an opportunity to try and get revenge? The war against the Fisher King was useless and bloody and, with sorcerers, a good chance for Arthur to fall in battle. If his father has gone mad on the pronouncement of his death, it would be the perfect revenge.

Which means his return, whole and with news of victory, would be the last thing his uncle wants.

“Geraint,” he calls quietly, and the man is inside immediately, “have Vidor follow my uncle, discretely.”

“Sire.” The flap to the tent closes, and there’s no questions, no confusion, merely following the order.

Geraint suspects something, too.

It’s one reason he likes the knight, why Arthur named him the new second in command after Leon’s departure. He was a rock when Arthur was furious and in pain and lashing out at the seeming betrayal of his best friend. Geraint had taken the brunt of Arthur’s wrath with a stoic face and almost understated compassion. He kept training on point with the knights, challenged Arthur whenever his rage consumed him enough to nearly hurt his comrades during practice. Geraint had broken two bones protecting the others that way.

It showed Arthur, once he’d calmed down enough, that the man was worthy of the promotion.

The knight returns moments later, closing the tent flaps behind him and taking the seat his uncle vacated. Arthur examines his second carefully. The man is a noble by birth and shares an almost identical hair color to Leon. Geraint, though, keeps his hair short, seeing the same barber as Arthur even. He tries to keep clean-shaven because despite being only a year younger than Arthur, he still can’t grow a full beard, only stubble that creates a faint mustache and little else. His cleft chin is prominent, and his face slightly longer than average, a family trait Arthur’s been told. Though exceptionally skilled, Arthur silently admits he’s no match for Lancelot, or even Gwaine most likely.

He’d seriously thought of taking Geraint on his campaign, but while he wanted the man to come, he also wanted someone back at the castle. Part of it was residual fallout, the distrust Leon created by being at his side and then betraying them. Part of it, though, was the desire to keep Camelot safe, and he knew Geraint knew how much of an honor it was, having Arthur entrust the safety of the castle and lower town to him.

For a minute, the two knights eye each other, and then Geraint’s face breaks in relief and he says shakily, “Gods, Arthur. We thought…that beast-“

“I’m aware of how it looked. I was fortunate to find…to find safety.”

“On a lake island.” There’s the disbelief Arthur expects. “That just so happened to have the Fisher King.”

Arthur can’t help but smile, letting a chuckle escape him. “I knew you wouldn’t believe that.”

He gets a small smile in return. “You never did like convenient coincidences in stories.”

“I’ll tell you all about it over some mead.” Arthur sobers up and Geraint does the same with him. “First, I must know what’s going on. Where are Bayard’s men? Where’s the Witchfinder, Valiant, the other new knights?”

Geraint leans forward to rest his hands on his thighs. In a hushed voice he says, “Valiant rode back with Myror, to give the news that you’d…that you most likely were dead. The King was furious, banished everyone from the room. I caught,” he hesitates, then, “I caught Myror speaking with Agravaine privately after that. I couldn’t hear what they said. The next morning, Agravaine ordered me and the knights to shore up our defenses on the line.”

“That would leave the keep unguarded,” Arthur growled.

“He provided a list of knights to send back. A break for those who’d fought for so long. Camelot would still have Uther’s personal guard, that they would suffice for a few hours. So he said.”

It wasn’t an implausible scenario, but definitely not a strategy he could see his father orchestrating. “Why didn’t my father ride out with you?”

“That morning his manservant announced His Highness was ill.”

He doesn’t need to vocalize the thought, he can see the thought in Geraint’s face. “I know there was another attack, an attempt to enter the Perilous Lands.”

“There were orders to your father’s advisors, sealed with wax. When those returning to Camelot had left, the advisors ordered us, all of us, to fight on a second front. There were sorcerers and footmen. They took…we lost a few people trying to take the second forest pass.”

It only takes a minute for Arthur to remember the battle plans in his mind. The other forest path was overrun and thick with trees, a large clearing the only sign of the transition between the Perilous Lands and Camelot’s. He’d dismissed it as a point of attack many times, too easy to be caught in a bottleneck, lots of opportunities for the enemy to set magical traps they couldn’t help but walk into. “Who issued the order?”

Geraint shook his head as he said, “The orders held King Uther’s seal, Sire.”

Then it would be considered a missive from his father. Arthur frowns. He’d thought his father agreed that the second pass was too dangerous to take. Maybe with his disappearance, his father just wanted any way in. “How many did we lose?”

“Fifty footmen, another dozen when the fire spread that way. I ordered a retreat, once the smoke and the heat from the flames began to overwhelm us. We couldn’t see the fire-“

“An excellent call.” Geraint offers a faint smile at the praise. “Bayard’s men weren’t part of the attack?”

“No. When we returned, they had all left, and Sir Agravaine was here. He was…not pleased by our retreat. But agreed we could do nothing against the blaze. He ordered us to wait for it to burn out, then march once more.”

“With half the men,” he says flatly.

“Four thousand, with only a few hundred knights.”

A powerful force, but certainly not enough to wage a war against an army of sorcerers. “Why hadn’t you sent anyone to retrieve the property of the fallen knights? I found-“

“We wanted to, Sire.” Geraint ducks his head. “That was my call, though. We knew the beast fell, but didn’t know how far the fires had spread there. And though the knight that rode upon that thing hadn’t tried to kill us yet-“

“You didn’t know if it was still there, didn’t want to risk the men.” Arthur grimaces, but eventually nods. After a minute of silence, he asks, “There’s something more, something that has you suspect Agravaine as I do.”

“Yes.” He eyes Arthur up and down. “Why do you suspect him?”

“The Black Knight was his brother, Tristan.” The shock of his pronouncement isn’t unexpected. “I was able to slay him, but he blamed my father and me for his sister’s death. And now I can’t help but consider my uncle’s motives.”

“I…I don’t blame you.” He still looks gobsmacked, until Arthur raises a pointed eyebrow and he shakes his head. “Right, yes. As you know, the King has been courting allies, ever since rumors of Essetir allying itself with the Fisher King.”

Arthur knows. Mercia’s retreat is even more suspicious given their treaty with Camelot. Then again, the other Five Kingdoms have vowed to defend Camelot, but not attack the Perilous Lands. They say it’s in fear of the dragon, but whispers abound that it’s because they follow Uther’s command with the Great Purge, but have no desire to slaughter sorcerers. Some say there are magic users hidden among Camelot’s closest allies.

It’s left Uther seeking external support, and not always of the best kind.

Geraint continues with, “Agravaine has taken to meeting with their representatives.” He licks his lips. “As we were departing, your uncle signed treaties with both King Sarrum of Amata and King Odin of Cornwall.”

Sarrum, one of the most treacherous kings in Albion, and Odin, a man who blamed his son’s death at a tournament on Arthur. Neither have a good reason to be allies with Camelot, much less wage a war against magic. “And now all but the King’s closest knights, or the knights Agravaine insisted join, are all that guards Camelot, which must be run by a regent.”

Geraint nods seriously. “It happened after the departure, but I received a missive this morn. The advisors voted to make your uncle regent.”

Which is when a squire sticks his head in and reports that Sir Vidor sent word that Agravaine has ridden off into the night.


	21. Chapter 21

Arthur takes Geraint and Caridoc, whose own squire has horses ready and the three set off. They have to walk through some of the revelers, and with the darkening skies, Arthur knows they only have an hour, maybe two, before nightfall is upon them. The clouds still haven’t dispersed, which means there’ll be no moonlight by which to ride, and they’ll have to give up.

As they trot quickly through the camp, Arthur looks not at the knights, but at the footmen, the servants. They’re all from villages Arthur has been to, has made a connection with. He doesn’t recognize all of them, but he recognizes enough. These are people that have had a royal visit, either himself or his father. People who have a connection with the rulers of Camelot, who would be most vocal if the kingdom fell beyond the Pendragon line.

His uncle has planned this meticulously.

Finally, they reach the edge of the camp and Geraint spots Vidor’s trail immediately. They gallop off, and it’s only thirty minutes before they find the knight in question. He’s waiting at the bottom of a hill, his horse tied off to a branch. “Sire,” he nods, then waves up the hill. “There, Sire.”

Arthur dismounts and starts climbing up. There’s no footpath, and in fact the roots and bushes make it extremely difficult to climb. Geraint is right behind him, but the other two knights are staying on the ground, guarding the horses. Arthur wonders why until he reaches the peak of the hill, which ends in a sheer drop just past two trees whose gnarled roots weave in and out of the hard-packed earth to a small valley below.

A valley filled with an army.

Arthur immediately falls to his stomach and Geraint does the same beside him. He’s grateful for the clouds now, as the sun can’t reflect off their armor to give away their position. He spots his uncle quickly enough, his black cloak billowing behind him as he walks through the armored men. They’re large, their armor plated and darker than usual. It isn’t until he sees the bald, dark-skinned man clasp Agravaine’s arm in greeting that he curses under his breath.

Southrons. Loyal to the southern kingdoms, always eager to expand their territories, and the source of some of Camelot’s worst bandit raids.

“If he has the armies of Odin and Sarrum, what does he need with Southrons?” Geraint whispers.

“They’re unaffiliated,” Arthur whispers back. He thinks another minute, then rolls onto his back and covers his face. His uncle is a traitor, another man who probably blames Uther for the death of Ygraine. That’s why all the knights are here, the footmen who know the royal family best. They wouldn’t be expecting an attack by Southrons, and the rest of Albion would think they had all been killed in a surprise attack from the Fisher King.

He wants to believe the Five Kingdoms wouldn’t stand for this, that they’d object to Odin and Sarrum and Southrons, but with all three armies, Camelot could silence any objections with sword and blood. Camelot would be as good as dead, carved up between the armies and their allies would rather sue for peace than attack such a large force.

“Bloody buggering hell,” he finally whispers, then taps Geraint softly in the arm. The man gets the message and they’re climbing back down just as quickly and quietly as they climbed up. Caridoc already has his horse ready and in moments all four are riding back towards the camp. Vidor says quietly, “The last news on the Southern kingdoms was that they were being led by a man named Helios. Their best swordsman.”

“Helios.” Not that it matters. That valley held enough warriors to outnumber his army three-to-one.

“Should we try to warn the King?” Geraint’s voice is still soft, just barely loud enough to be heard over the thumping of hooves.

Arthur considers it, but he doubts Agravaine has the way back to Camelot unwatched. Not to mention the knights he’d always suspected of darker ambitions or didn’t trust to watch his back have probably sworn loyalty to his uncle and would kill anyone who attempted to warn the King on sight. Hell, he suspected if he showed up he wouldn’t make it past the first gate.

His father’s coincidental illness looks a lot more deliberate now. With the Crown Prince dead and the King gone mad, Agravaine is the only one with any sort of distant claim to the throne, other than Morgana, who no one else knows is related to Uther by blood. He wonders how long Agravaine will torment his father with deranged visions—a spell? A poison?—before outright killing him. He doubts he’ll wait too long. The longer he’s alive, the greater chance someone will discover the truth.

And there’s nothing he can do to save him.

He wants to scream and breathe a sigh of relief all at once.

As they approach the camp again, Arthur stops his mare and watches the activities. There are rabbits and deer and mead making the rounds, his people happy and eager to go home with their returned prince.

They’ll never get the chance unless he does something.

Geraint sidles up beside him and, still quietly, asks, “Do we kill Agravaine should he return?”

“He won’t return.” He can feel it down in his core. When his uncle returns, it’ll be to lead the Southrons to slaughter them all. He inhales deeply and lets it out slowly through his nose. “Sir Vidor, Sir Cadroc. Find Sirs Brennis and Cador. I want the four of you to find all the knights and let them know that we’re breaking camp now. We need to be ready to move shortly after sunset.”

“That…may not be possible, Sire. The tents alone-“

“I’m aware,” he snaps, then shakes his head. “I’m sorry. Just…please, hurry. We have to get out of here before they attack.” And the Southrons will attack tonight. It’s their best chance of catching everyone unawares and slaughtering them with the least resistance. Fortunately some of the camp is already focused on breaking things down, packing things for an easy departure tomorrow.

They’ll just have to expedite those plans if they have any hope of surviving.

He sees the two knights get it, before riding off into the camp. Arthur turns his horse around and starts riding along the perimeter, back towards the spot where he first arrived. Geraint rides with him, and he carefully constructs his next words mentally. What he’s about to ask may make the knight doubt him, doubt his mind. It’s the only thing he can think of. Four thousand men can’t move quickly enough to escape that invasion force. They need help.

He only hopes Geraint can make it in time.

Finally, he stops at the edge of the forest he emerged from and turns to face his second. Geraint rides up to stand opposite the prince, looks into the trees, then looks back at Arthur. “Your orders, Sire?”

Arthur lets his horse step back a bit, then clears his throat. “What I’m about to task you with, Sir Geraint, may sound odd.”

“Arthur-“

“I ask because my leaving now would be tantamount to destroying whatever morale is left with the men. I can’t trust anyone else with this task, and so I…I ask you.”

Geraint studies him, his eyes narrow for a minute, and then he dips his head. “I’m your knight, My Lord. Whatever you ask, I shall follow to the best of my capabilities.”

Arthur swallows and waves towards the forest. “You should find my path easily enough. You’ll need a torch, as you’ll have to ride even at night. Follow the path until you come…you’ll enter into the Perilous Lands. Eventually, you’ll see the Dark Tower, the stronghold of the Fisher King.” Geraint’s eyes widen in understanding before Arthur even says, “The king is dead, but his knights still stand. If you ask them to assist us, then…I believe they will help.”

Geraint stays silent a good minute, his mouth opening and closing, before he finally stutters, “You’re not Arthur, are you.”

“I am. I swear upon my sword and my father’s life. I merely…learned some new facts about our war.” He scowls briefly. “It was unprovoked, and we’ve killed innocents, non-sorcerers, all in the name of Camelot. The death of the Fisher King provided the opportunity for me to end the violence.”

Another minute of silence. “You didn’t kill him,” he finally says.

“He died by taking a spell meant for me cast by a sorceress that was an enemy to us both. In honor of his sacrifice, I vowed to end our war.”

Geraint nods slowly. “Leon’s not a traitor, is he. He discovered something, something you found while you were in their lands.”

Neither sentence is a question. Arthur nods back. “I promise to explain everything once we’ve gotten our people safe. For now, I know that they don’t view us—don’t view me, at least—as the enemy. If you explain what is to occur, they should send help.”

“Sorcerers.”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” He grimaces. “Given the size of Agravaine’s army, it may be the only way to save our people.”

Geraint looks to the ground. “We’ve lost Camelot, haven’t we.”

He can’t help the flinch, but he keeps his voice strong when he replies, “Only temporarily. I won’t abandon my people.”

It’s another interminable minute before Geraint rolls his shoulders back and nods. “I’ll ride as quickly as I can, Sire.”

Arthur lets out a long breath. “Thank you, Geraint. Let them know we’re heading on the same path you’re taking. Hopefully Helios won’t risk his men in the lands of sorcerers.”

“Depends how loyal he is to your uncle.”

He flashes back to the warm greeting the man gave Agravaine, and silently admits it’s probably a futile hope. “Best speed, Geraint.”

“You too, Sire.” He examines Arthur one last time, then clicks his tongue and guides his mount into the forest. Arthur watches him go, then turns and rides back to the camp. The festivities have ended, and tents are already coming down, the footmen moving quickly. He doesn’t know what Vidor and Cadiroc told the others, but it’s obviously motivated everyone into action.

Some of the knights are helping with the breakdown, but some are on perimeter alert. Arthur rides around, grasping each of their hand and explaining their direction. He’s met with more than a few incredulous looks, but the ‘Southron men fear the sorcerer’s lands’ seems to convince most for the moment. Vidor, he discovers, is acting as a lookout, trying to keep watch for Arthur’s uncle and the army. Arthur gives him an approving nod before heading back around to where he left Geraint.

It takes nearly two hours, just after sunset, before they begin their march. The knights are surrounding the army as best they can, carrying torches, while the footmen, squires, and everyone else carry the equipment and supplies. Arthur hates to do it, but it’s the fastest way into the Perilous Lands, and he forces his horse through the battlefield of last week without any hesitation, though he still does it as far from the Questing Beast as he can.

He can hear the mutters, the beginnings of dissension as they walk into the enemy’s territory. The only thing keeping them going, apparently, is the fact that Arthur slayed their king, though he’s willing to bet the dragon comment he’d made is biting him in the ass right now. In the meantime, Arthur’s grateful for the forest fire, as it leaves them a clear, wide swath of land to cross with little difficulty, though it also leaves them almost no cover.

A fact that’s most prominent another hour later, when Vidor’s voice yells, “Archers!” across the night and the footmen drop the equipment to duck and raise their shields. Hundreds of arrows fall from the skies, and he rears his horse around in time to catch the thousands of torches and large shadow behind them, closing quickly.

The Southron’s.

“Knights to me,” he cries out and rides straight towards the back. “Footmen, keep moving!” He draws Excalibur, and it gleams even now, drawing attention not only from the enemy, but from his own men. “Until the last man, we don’t let any of them past!”

Vidor and Cadiroc are right there beside him, ignoring the eerie sword and getting their own weapons ready. The other army isn’t on horses, save for who must be Helios, and beside him, his uncle. The man looks both furious and gleeful at coming upon them. The Southrons have thousands of men charging forward, all armored, all bearing swords. Arthur doubts any of them will survive, but he’s got to give the army a chance. They don’t deserve to be slaughtered.

He spies among his knights a large contingent of squires as well, unarmored but standing with brave faces and swords drawn. Behind them, a hundred archers are standing, ready to defend their fellow soldiers and aid in their escape.

At least he’ll die protecting his people.

The enemy are less than fifty feet away when there’s a heavy flap of wings and a familiar roar that echoes across the sky. Then, soaring just above them, the Great Dragon slices through the air and unleashes a barrage of fire upon the front of the Southron army, killing them instantly. It swings around in a sharp arc, flaps its wings, and lands right in front of Arthur. The other knights are already crowding around him, ready to protect him, when four familiar knights leap off its back.

The largest, Percival, kneels by one of Kilgharrah’s front claws, which is holding, he sees, a very shaken Geraint. As the dragon releases the knight, Percival steadies him, then points at Arthur, quietly saying something.

To the left, he sees Lancelot standing guard as Merlin slides off the back of the dragon, a new sidhe staff in his hands, glowing a bright blue.

Before him, one of the knights approaches just out of sword-swinging length and stops. “Hey Golden Boy,” Gwaine says with a cheeky grin, “miss us?”


	22. Chapter 22

Merlin’s arm is outstretched towards the army, and as the dragon takes off Arthur can see it’s because the warlock’s created some invisible wall to keep the arrows from hitting any of them. His knights are looking between him and Gwaine, some with uncertainty, some with a cross look of betrayal. However, the dragon scorching a good quarter of the other army from front to rear seems to have them confused enough to not make any rash decisions.

“Stand down,” he tells the knights. “I asked them to help us avoid the ambush.” More outraged looks, but then Geraint’s pushed his way through the ranks of horses and glares at anyone even thinking of attacking the prince. Leon is beside him a moment later, doing the same.

Arthur stands up in the saddle to address everyone around him. “I know,” he calls above the sounds of screams and smell of burning flesh, “that we have been enemies as recent as two days ago. When I was gone, I made contact with the court of the Fisher King.” The footmen and squires look completely lost, as if they can’t understand the words from his mouth. “Their monarch is dead, and I have no desire for any further war.” There’s an explosion as Kilgharrah’s fire slams into the ground.

“Camelot has been lost to her enemies!” He waves behind him, where Helios and Agravaine have vanished, and what remains of the army is retreating. Kilgharrah, he notes, is not attacking anyone who crosses the stream back into Camelot’s lands. “If you wish to try to return, or seek another court, I won’t stop you. But I intend to restore Camelot, and to do that I need you. I need an army and allies. These,” he waves back again, this time to Merlin and his knights, “are allies.”

Most of the brayed looks are vanishing, but suspicion and confusion still abound. “I haven’t forgotten the words of my father, or his lessons on magic.” He swallows and tilts his head up. “I also have learned that he’s wrong, that this war we have fought is not because of the magical attacks. It is a war of vengeance, to spill the blood of innocent people and those who my father could not execute quickly enough. It is discomforting,” he admits, “but unless the Five Kingdoms seek us to help restore Camelot, we have nowhere else to go. Please,” he meets the gaze of every knight he can, “I ask only that you allow me the chance to explain everything, to show I am still deserving of your oaths. I promise none of you will be harmed if you come with us in good faith.”

He settles himself back into the saddle, then carefully guides his horse out, around his knights and not towards Merlin, but behind the archers, between those retreating and those who’ve stayed. “If you’re willing, stand with me. If you choose not to, I will cast no aspersions of oath-breaker.”

Leon’s backed away, joined Gwaine and Percival by Merlin, who’s turned his back to all of them to face the retreating army. The dragon has flown off, back into the Perilous Lands, but his flames still burn, the bodies of the Southron army turning into ash only yards away.

Geraint is the first one to push through the knights and stand by Arthur. He’s still shaking, but Arthur can see the conviction in his eyes. Vidor and Cadiroc join quickly after that, then their squires. Brennis and Cador are next, as are the archers from their homelands. In the end, one squire, three footmen, and Sirs Bertrand and Montague stand aligned against them the longest, before the two knights bow their heads and join with the others, with obvious reservations. The other four follow their masters, and Arthur lets out a silent sigh of relief.

Arthur’s pretty sure it’s only because he’s saved all of them from an ambush that they’re even willing to give him a chance, but he’ll take it. “Thank you,” he says as sincerely as he can. “Please go after the footmen, protect them as we go deeper into the lands.”

There’s a murmur and then the group starts off after the rest of the army. Only Vidor, Brennis, and Geraint remain behind, and he can completely understand their reluctance to leave him alone. With a nod to the three men, he dismounts and approaches the four knights and Merlin. Lancelot reaches out to squeeze his shoulder, while Gwaine keeps smirking and Percival nods. Leon bows properly, before stepping aside and he’s left facing Merlin, who finally turns around with a put-upon look on his face. “Thank you.”

“Thank Morgana. She saw it long before your knight could reach us.” Merlin shifts uncomfortably, then says, “I’m sorry about your uncle, if that part’s true.”

“It is.”

Merlin waits a beat, then says, “I’m not sorry about your father.”

“So it’s true?”

“Morgana says he’s ill.” He sighs. “She also says Camelot’s fall is inevitable. Even if I were to take Kilgharrah there, the damage he’d do and the lives that’d be lost…”

“I won’t abandon my people,” he says forcefully.

Merlin nods, as if that were obvious. “So what do you want from us? I won’t be at your beck and call.” Arthur raises his eyebrow, then looks pointedly at the burning grounds. “Well, I mean, I couldn’t just let them slaughter you all. But I can’t keep doing that.”

He definitely agrees with that sentiment. He doesn’t want to be known as a man who relies on a warlock to do his work. After all, Arthur has a reputation to uphold, and his knights’ respect to keep. “I request respite in your kingdom and court, Prince Merlin,” he finally says, loudly enough for the knights behind him to hear.

Merlin rolls his eyes. “Of course we’ll take another group of refugees form Camelot.”

“Thank you. I promise we’ll depart as soon as we find a court willing to stand with us.”

That gets him a look, not just from Merlin, but Lancelot as well. He frowns, but decides to follow-up with that later. “If you and your knights could lead us to your keep, we would be exceptionally grateful.”

“Of course. Gwaine can you ride head, set aside some land a little away from the sorcerers?”

“Sure thing, Merlin,” Gwaine says and asks with no respect whatsoever, “Mind if I use your horse, Pendragon?”

“By all means, _Sir_ Gwaine.” He can’t keep the sarcasm from his tone, and feels a little better that it not only makes Merlin snort, but Geraint crack a small smile. He turns his attention to Lancelot. “Will there be any problems with…the people,” he finally settles on.

“I’ll keep an eye on it, but we’ve had enemies become allies before. The Great Purge affected everyone.”

Arthur nods his thanks, then turns and starts walking, following the trail left by his army. Gwaine is already a distant figure, and his own three knights fall around him cautiously. After they’ve walked a good five minutes, he says, “Thank you for standing with me,” to Geraint.

“I gave my oath,” he says tonelessly. Then, with a little more gentleness, he adds, “I trust you, Sire. You’ve never done wrong by us.”

“I can only hope everyone agrees with you when they discover our destination.”

It’s a long night, and little balls of light bound around not only them, but in the distance where Camelot’s army is walking. He knows it’s Merlin, and knows that it’s probably unsettling his people, but there’s little else he can do. He can only hope that they have a chance to rest before anything urgent comes up.

It’s dawn when they reach the land Gwaine’s standing by. It’s the land that extends from the edge of the moat refugees to the near edge of the cliffs on the path leading to the Dark Tower. He can see that the edge of the moat where his people have settle appears vacant, the sorcerers and other refugees undoubtedly shifted to other areas around the tower. He can see a wall of knights—both his own and Merlin’s—ready to stop any trouble that might begin. Arthur’s exhausted, but can’t fall into his cot just yet. He brings the chair from his tent, already set up when he arrives, and places it just outside his door. He sits there and calls for his knights, talks to each and every one of them, explains everything he can.

Some still give him a look of betrayal. A handful leave with nothing but awe. Most, though, accept his story, accept that for now, this is safe. Some of the squires and footmen approach him as well, and Geraint and a rotating set of knights ensure no one tries to harm him as his reflexes grow duller and duller with his exhaustion. It’s midday when Geraint insists he get some rest, if only to inspire his men to do the same in what’s viewed as hostile territory.

He almost doesn’t make it to the cot.

When he awakens, it appears to be sunset, and he finds Leon sitting on a stool, Geraint laying on the floor completely dead to the world. “Leon.”

“Sire.”

He sits up and rubs his eyes. He’s still tired, but not the bone weariness he felt earlier. “How’re…is everything well?”

“There have been some reunions, people that vanished during the Great Purge that Camelot’s people thought were dead. Most of them have been happy. A couple scuffles between the Essetir knights and our—your own, but that’s the extent of issues thus far.”

He can’t help the small smile. “They’re your knights too, Leon.”

“Not really.” He shifts uncomfortably. “I wish they were, but they remember the last war too well. Many aren’t comfortable with my presence.”

“And yet…” He waves around the tent.

“Geraint, he swore to watch me, then asked me to watch you while he slept.” He ducks his head. “You chose a good second.”

Arthur absorbs the compliment and stands, going to the washbasin. There’s a bit of water, and he uses it to splash his face. His eyes are bloodshot and ringed by dark circles, but those are the only signs of his lingering exhaustion. When Leon clears his throat, Arthur turns around and raises an eyebrow in askance.

“You might have noticed Lancelot and Merlin, when you-“

“Mentioned seeking other kingdoms, yes.” Arthur frowns and moves back to the cot, sitting back down. “Do you know what that’s about?”

“Despite the Five Kingdoms being close, Camelot has not made many allies in recent years. Essetir has made some deep diplomatic inroads across Albion as a result.” He grimaces. “You may find seeking a welcoming court to be more difficult than expected.”

“The Southron army and division of Camelot is a threat. The Five Kingdoms have to see that, so do the other kingdoms.”

“Maybe. So far, Camelot hasn’t been dissolved.” He ducks his head. “Morgana dreamed. Agravaine will return with the Southron army, proclaiming to have eliminated the threat of the Fisher King.”

“So he looks like the returning hero.” And the scorch marks from the dragon will probably lend credence to his story. “Bayard-“

“Will probably back him,” Geraint says suddenly from the ground, making both of them jump. His eyes are still closed, however. “They’ve recently made some lucrative trade deals with Camelot.” One eye opens looking straight at Arthur. “Through Agravaine directly, Sire.”

He sighs at the news. “And my return would undoubtedly be heralded as a trick by sorcerers.” He crosses his arms. “Has Merlin said how long he’ll allow us to remain here?”

“The Perilous Lands are open to all refugees of Uther’s reign,” Leon replies immediately. “I’d say this qualifies.”

“There won’t be…?”

“Any issues will probably come from us,” Geraint interjects, finally sitting up and reaching back to scrub the dirt from his hair. “Your discussions earlier helped, but,” he glances at Leon briefly, “magic isn’t something we trust.”

Leon shrugs and Arthur nods, because he knows exactly where Geraint is coming from. He looks to the ceiling, then to the ground, crossing his arms. “What would it take?”

“Sire,” both knights say at once.

“To trust the magic.” He looks at Geraint this time, to make sure his comment is answered by his current second.

“Something big. The dragon saving us probably helped, but in all honesty, it would take the public surrender of the Prince and his court.” Geraint tilts his head in thought. “Even then, there will always be doubters, those who can’t let go of King Uther’s views.”

“And you?”

Geraint turns his attention back to Arthur. “I don’t trust it, but you do. Where you lead, Sire, I follow.” He offers a weak smile. “I will try, but it will take…time.”

Which is something they don’t really have. “Leon,” Arthur nods his head towards the door, “how likely is it we’ll find harbor in any court in the land?”

Leon claps his hands in front of him and frowns as he contemplates the question. “Essetir has ears everywhere, and though Morgause said she’d prefer you dead,” Geraint makes a strangled sound at that, “in truth, Cenred seeks the land more, a chance to expand his territory. If he decides to go to war, try and claim it while it’s perceived to be in turmoil, he’ll call in every favor he has.”

“Because my return to the throne would threaten his expansion,” Arthur finishes. “He’ll poison any deal, and we have little to bargain with.”

“We could work the land,” Geraint offers, “offer our services to protect couriers for whomever’s kingdom we settle.”

“For how long? And what if Cenred succeeds? What if Agaravaine decides to conquer the Five Kingdoms?” He narrows his eyes, remaining quiet for a minute, before asking in a low tone, “Leon, please inform Prince Merlin I seek an audience.”

Both knights look surprised, and Leon asks, “To what end?”

“Destiny.”


	23. Chapter 23

He’s not surprised that Leon returns within the hour. He’s not surprised Geraint insists on coming along, either. He is surprised, however, that Merlin isn’t meeting him in the main hall with the court, though Hunith smiles sadly at him as he passes by. No, Leon gets joined by Lancelot, and then all four of them are heading up, up, up until they’re on the floor with the throne room and Arthur pauses at the hall entrance, raising his eyebrow in silent askance.

Lancelot shakes his head.

Arthur frowns, but marches the rest of the way and enters the room to find it empty save the throne and Merlin, though the warlock is apparently standing as far away from the wooden construct as possible. He bows when Merlin faces him. “Thank you for agreeing to see me, Prince Merlin.”

“Of course, Prince Arthur.” He turns his attention to the knights. “Please wait outside.”

Arthur glances back, sees Geraint wants to object, but he’s also the first one out, followed by Lancelot and a worried looking Leon. With a wave of Merlin’s hand, the doors shut, and Arthur can’t help the flinch.

“Sorry,” Merlin says, and he sounds like he actually means it. He pivots on his heel to lean against the wall, arms crossed, eyes locked on the throne. “Leon mentioned you wanted to talk about Destiny.”

“Kilgharrah said I was free to choose my own, now.”

The other man’s eyes narrow, but he shrugs. “I’m aware. So am I.”

Arthur stakes two steps forward. “The Perilous Lands aren’t safe.”

“You mean the curse? You broke it. The land is returning to its former glory, healthy and fertile.”

“That’s what I mean.” Merlin finally tilts his head to look at him. “Cursed or otherwise, your land will become desirable, kingdoms will want to take it for themselves. You’re now located at a focal point, between Essetir and Camelot and their respective allies. I may have stopped this war, but more’s coming.”

“I,” Merlin frowns, then pushes away from the wall and paces slowly, “I can prepare for that. Cenred is already recalling his knights, but there are still plenty of people left.”

“People who want more than just a hovel and a place to sleep. You have farmers and merchants and tradesmen. You have knights that, eventually, will want their own lands and authority. If you have any hope of surviving, you either have to move beyond here, or set yourself up as a kingdom. A true kingdom.”

Merlin stops walking, back facing Arthur. “I can take care of my people,” he finally says.

“You can defend your people. You’re the Greatest Warlock in Albion.” Merlin spins around, startled by his proclamation. “Can you handle accounts to work the land? Can you set about rebuilding this keep and provide laws for the people? Can you build your own alliances with the kingdoms of the land?”

“Yes!” He waves his hand around. “Most powerful warlock! Emrys! What kingdom wouldn’t want to be my ally?”

“Essetir.” Merlin steps back. “Mercia. Amata.” With a pointed look, he adds, “Camelot.”

“Essetir is a friend.”

“Essetir was content for you to wage war with Camelot as a proxy. Few resources expended by them to harm an enemy and even if I won, the land would be worthless. And let’s not forget Morgause, who would rather see me dead, and you had to force to abandon her plan of…what was it, immortal soldiers?”

“The Knights of Medhir,” Merlin answers hollowly, before shaking his head.

“And now your lands will be fertile, good for farming, good for mining, great for defense, and a place to launch campaigns from. Unless you can strengthen your hold and this kingdom, your people will suffer.”

“So what, you come to tell me this to-to taunt me?!” He storms forward and shoves at Arthur’s chest. “You absolute prat!”

Arthur grabs his hands, well aware that those hands could easily toss him across the room. “Destiny, Merlin. We had one once.”

Merlin glares at him. “My father unwove that.”

“He unwove what was to be, but we’re still connected. Kilgharrah explained that, too.”

He jerks his hands once, and Arthur lets go so he can back away. He mutters something that sounds like ‘meddling oversized lizard.’ A minute later he asks tersely, “What do you want, Arthur?”

“Leon is certain there’ll be no kingdoms to take me and my army in. Without that, I can never build up the resources I need to return to Camelot and free my people from Agravaine and his allies.” Merlin gives him a reluctant affirmative to that. “I would ask we stay here, but everything I pointed out is a hindrance, as is the fact that my people don’t trust magic, haven’t learned that you’re not the enemy.”

Now Merlin is staring at him, confusion plainly written in the wrinkles of his forehead and turned down mouth.

Arthur takes a deep breath. This is going to be the tricky part. “I propose an alliance, or rather, a surrender.”

“Surrender,” Merlin says flatly.

“I defeated your King.” he holds his hands up at Merlin’s dark look. “In a sense, I did. If it were honorable combat, that would be the cessation of hostilities and you, as the losing party, would make reparations.”

“So you want me to hand my kingdom over to Camelot?!”

Arthur resists the urge to flinch at the bite in Merlin’s tone. “I want you to hand your kingdom over to me.”

Merlin gapes at him for all of a minute, and then he laughs. It’s not a nice laugh, it’s one Arthur recognizes. The laugh of anguish and incredulity and exhaustion. “You want me to—you can’t be serious!”

“I can turn this into a prosperous kingdom,” Arthur says as authoritatively as he can. “I can help your people rebuild, I can bring my people in to help defend the land so yours don’t have to. I have ties to courts all over Albion, and while they wouldn’t let me go there in exile, they will open relations if I speak on behalf of a court.”

“Then I’ll make you an ambassador!”

“Can you run fiefdoms? Can you coordinate between the lords of the land to ensure there’s enough grain for a drought? How about filling the coffers so people can be paid and goods can be brought in?” Letting some of his own annoyance bleed through, he continues with, “Do you know how to do all that _Mer_ lin?”

“Yes!” He punches his hands down, clenched into fists. “Maybe! Some of it! Lancelot-“

“Is a peasant.”

“Don’t you dare-“

“He’s a fantastic knight, but he never learned the ways of the court, of how to rule. Balinor never had to know, because the land was worthless and magic was used to feed everyone. The sorcerers respected him for his power as the Fisher King, but that won’t work anymore! You have responsibilities now, beyond simply protecting your people!”

“And you know how do all of that?!”

“Of course I do! I’m a bloody prince!”

“Prince _Prat_!”

“Insolent _peasant!_ ”

Arthur isn’t expecting Merlin to throw himself at him, but he rolls with it, turning and shoving Merlin away into a wall. Not hard, but enough to jar the man on impact. They’re both panting a bit, and Merlin’s turned red in his anger. They glare for a few minutes, before Arthur takes a long step back, holding his hands up.

Merlin keeps glaring, before hissing, “You just want a kingdom to build your bloody army!”

“I want to rescue my home!”

“What if you can’t?! What if Camelot is lost _forever?!_ ”

“Then I guess I’ll have to make this my bloody home won’t I?!”

Merlin gapes at him a moment. “You _what?!_ ”

“I said,” Arthur takes a moment to bring his anger back under control, “I’ll have to make this my home, won’t I.”

Merlin keeps staring. “I don’t…I don’t even know how to respond to that.”

“Look,” Arthur tries again, “Yes, I want to build this kingdom to retake Camelot. I _also_ want to help our people, yours _and mine_. I want to build a future that may not be the Once and Future King, but at least it’s a future _I_ build. And,” he ducks his head, “I would like to build it with your help.”

“My… _why?_ ”

“Because maybe Destiny was right and we should’ve always been on the same side. Because you have four of the most loyal knights that I would be honored to call my own. Because you kept my friends—Gaius, Gwen, Morgana— _safe_ when they had nothing else. Because you were an idiot and ran in front of the Questing Beast-“

“Urgh. Can you not keep bringing that up?” The words are flippant, but the tone is shy and awkward. Arthur can tell that the flush from anger is gone and instead, Merlin’s ears seem to be glowing from embarrassment at the praise. “I can’t…you’re serious about this.”

“You’re right, Camelot might be lost forever, but I’d like to try and restore it. Whether I can or can’t, though, it would be my honor to build a kingdom your father would be proud of.” More quietly, he adds, “Your kingdom.”

“Not if you’re king.”

“I’d need a Court Sorcerer. I know nothing of magic and most of the inhabitants of this land are magic.” He steps forward finally as Merlin ducks his head in acknowledgement. “I may be king, but I won’t forget that this is Balinor’s, that this is _yours_.” This time it’s Arthur who looks away. “I promised Will to protect you. I promised your father I would work with you. I would be your knight, but you have plenty of those and my men would never accept it. I could be your diplomat, advisor, any number of things, but I think we both know my people would revolt, and that might lead to more deaths. This way, we can give them time to learn, to see magic isn’t evil. That a future working with sorcerers might…might be the best all around.”

“And you think my people will just accept you? The son of their most hated enemy?”

There’s no bile or antagonism in Merlin’s tone, just blatant curiosity. “They will,” he looks back up at Merlin, “if I don the mantle not of King Arthur, but the Fisher King.”

“I told you,” Merlin waves at the chair, “the curse is broken.”

“Forget the curse. The title, Merlin. It’s a symbol. I may be the Once and Future King, but the _Fisher_ _King_ protected his people from my father’s persecution, made sure that innocent people weren’t hurt and tried to minimize casualties on all sides. The Fisher King _is_ their king. If you bow to him, they will as well, because _you_ are the Greatest Warlock.”

“Not all of them.”

“The druids. The sorcerers outside. Who knows how many others will join when they see what we’re building.” He closes the distance until he’s standing right in front of the warlock. “Merlin, imagine the Perilous—the Fisher’s Lands settled, families and villages and sorcerers and peasants working together, building together. Camelot…I will always want Camelot, want to restore my origins. If we succeed, I…words can’t describe what I’ll feel. If we don’t, though, I’ll die knowing I built something that _lasts_ , something _we_ built. Our own Destiny.”

He reaches out and clasps Merlin’s shoulders. “We can do this. We can build this Destiny, claim it as our own. Please,” he squeezes slightly, “let me.”

Merlin looks him in the eye for a long while, and it’s the same penetrating stare Balinor gave him that evening they discovered him and Will dead in this very room. He doesn’t know if it’s magic, if it’s just something dragonlords can do, but he knows enough to let everything show. He’s completely honest, this is a step to regaining Camelot, but that’s not his only reason. He _wants_ this.

Finally, Merlin smirks. “We’ll have to make the crown bigger to fit your fat head.”

He feels his heart clench with hope. “ _Mer_ lin…”

He lets out an amused sigh. “That’s a yes, you clotpole.”

The hug is spontaneous, the way he yanks Merlin close and just squeezes him. It earns him a squawk from the warlock, but then his arms are up and hugging him right back.

And deep down, something in Arthur proclaims, _This, this is right._


	24. Chapter 24

It takes time, of course. They can’t just go out the next day and announce that Arthur will be king. It takes months of negotiations, with Merlin snapping as much as he’s helping. Arthur snaps right back, and somehow the even footing works in such a way that he wishes Merlin could rule as an equal, rather than advisor.

His people won’t accept that, though. Not yet, anyways. Maybe in the future.

In the end, he puts together a council, his own court to bring about this new Destiny. There are so many knights he wants to invite, but he realizes that would be too complicated, too much too soon. He starts small, inviting Lancelot and Geraint, the lead knights for both kingdoms. In the future, he intends to add Percival, Gwaine, Leon, Vidor, Caridoc and Brennis. A knight’s council to handle the security of the kingdom.

For now, though, he just needs to get the ball rolling. He invites Elyan to join them and offers to keep him as the royal metalsmith. Morgana laughs at him for two minutes when she discovers what he’s planning, then immediately demands to be part of the council. She’d been on his list from the start, her knowledge of court politics, strategic mind, and connection to Essetir will be invaluable. He also invites Gwen, because she apparently hears everything despite no longer being a servant.

Gaius declines to join, simply smiling and saying, “I’m happy to be your physician, but my time as a king’s advisor has passed.” Hunith also declines, saying Merlin can speak for his people just fine. Which he does, sometimes rather loudly at Arthur. Kilgharrah is a silent partner in the endeavor whenever he comes by, although he does offer some advice or insight and, one time, a large round stone table that Arthur recognizes from the castle of Camelot’s ancient kings. The dragon delivers it with a smirk and not a word, but Arthur gets the message and he holds all future council meetings around the table so that all parties are equal.

Morgana and Gwen beam with proud smiles, and even Merlin sits up straighter in his seat when Arthur announces their equality to him.

Sorting out the land is a little more difficult. Again, he wants to award the knights as he would in Camelot, but the land is still recovering, and while some areas are ripe for farming almost immediately, the rest will take months, perhaps a full year to regain their fertility. Rather than dole out the land, in the end Lancelot and Geraint convince him to have the people work the fertile soil, while the masons and other tradesmen begin looking into the nearby mountain and the viability of finding ore, gems, even stone to rebuild the castle.

The last has Merlin smirking, and soon regular shipments of rock are left just beyond the edge of the old moat, though thus far nothing has been done with it.

When Morgause appears at court for the first time, she’s furious to find Arthur among them. For a minute, he’s sure the High Priestess will kill him, but Morgana intervenes. Their shouting is heard throughout the tower, until there’s a disturbing silence. A few minutes later, when the council rejoins the two sisters on the ground floor, Morgause begrudgingly offers an official olive branch between the Perilous Lands and Essetir.

Arthur doubts Cenred will be happy, but Morgause apparently puts Morgana’s happiness before her king’s.

Druids from all over join their growing community, the largest contingent arriving in the fourth month. With them is Mordred, who Morgana introduces to Arthur with a glare hot enough to burn. He smirks, but treats the boy—nearly ten years Morgana’s junior!—with respect and by the end of the night he thinks the druid might be good enough for Morgana. Might.

She smirks at him all of the next day.

Across the moat, homes are being constructed, Percival and Brennis working together. Apparently, during a night of drinking, Brennis challenged Percival to arm wrestling. Percival ended up breaking the knight’s wrist. The next morning they were inseparable, and by the following day they approached Arthur with plans on basic Roman plumbing and designs for a town, with contingencies for expanding even further and building defensive fortifications to protect the area. The forest to the east, at least, had come back strong and rather quickly, so there was lumber available to begin work on that.

Eventually, Valiant appears at the borders, requesting a meeting with a representative of the Perilous Lands. Merlin isn’t happy, but Arthur rides out to meet him, Lancelot, Geraint, Vidor and Percival all joining him just in case. There’s no shock on the man’s face at Arthur’s appearance. Instead, he says, “Great illusion,” before stating that King Agravaine demands they stay out of his lands, lest they incur the wrath of the Five Kingdoms.

Arthur’s tempted to send back Valiant’s corpse as a response. Instead, he tells the knight to tell his uncle Camelot will be restored to the Pendragon legacy, and that if he wants to test their strength, the dragon will be more than happy to meet their armies head on.

It takes the man aback, but with a scowl he’s riding off, and Arthur turns his own horse to return to the tower.

“Agravaine won’t take that threat lightly,” Lancelot warns.

“Good. I don’t.” He looks Lancelot in the eye. “We will take Camelot one day. Not just for me, but for the people suffering from three occupying forces.”

“Will you ask Merlin to cast a spell?” Percival asks, his tone neutral but Arthur hears the defensive intent behind them.

Remembering Gwaine’s words to Will all those months ago, he replies, “Merlin is not a weapon. I won’t ask him to take a kingdom for me, nor to use his power to exterminate my enemies. It’s my duty, not his.”

“Our duty,” Geraint corrects firmly.

Arthur doesn’t contradict him.

It’s a full six months, approaching Samhain, when everything starts coming together. The footmen and half of his knights now work side-by-side with sorcerers, more accepting—though still not always trusting—of the magic users. Druids wander the market without fear of jeers or being accosted, and the refugees are finally, finally starting to settle into newly-built homes.

Enough of the land has healed that Arthur can begin awarding parcels to important knights and sorcerers, though that’s more due to Morgana and Merlin’s insistence. They still have to rely on magic to feed most of the people due to the meager returns of this year’s harvest, but there are farms now. Within another year or two he can easily see them meeting the needs of the people without resorting to magic to solve their issues.

The mining exploration has struck a vein of silver, and sorcerers have found a source of iron in another mountain that they can begin extracting soon. Merlin is still collecting stone at the edge of the moat, for what purpose he has yet to reveal. The moat itself has filled up, the underground spring revitalized and flooding, providing them with some defenses and plenty of fresh water.

Mercia thus far has been the only one to test their defenses, and even then it was half-hearted. Arthur suspects Bayard was put up to it by the forces occupying Camelot, but without the information network of his previous kingdom, he can’t confirm it. Essetir keeps their friendly accord, even trading some supplies in exchange for magical services and some of the silver they’ve begun to stockpile.

On the diplomatic front they’ve had less luck, but surprisingly Tír-Mòr is the first to tentatively reach out the hand of friendship, indicating between words that they no longer like the atmosphere of Camelot. Deira, the lands on the other side of the eastern mountains, also makes contact, offering not only a truce but an exchange of gold for herbs and potions they can’t get in their own lands.

A week before Samhain, Merlin insists on a trip to the Isle of the Blessed. This time, looking at a map, Arthur can’t help but ask, “How the hell did we traverse to it in one day?! It’s across Camelot!”

Merlin’s cocky, “By magic,” is met with Arthur smacking him on the back of his head and loud laughs. Finally, Merlin explains, “No, really. Anyone of magic can reach the Isle, crossing entire kingdoms in a day. The Triple Goddess herself cast the enchantment, to ensure none of the Old Religion would be cut off from their most powerful site.”

“But I’m not magic.”

With a roll of his eyes, Merlin points out, “Kilgharrah granted you the knowledge. _His_ magic made it happen.”

Once there, Arthur discovers that while the skies elsewhere are clear and normal, the Isle itself is still covered by clouds pissing down rain. The land is slick and muddy, and entire portions of the castle are flooded and eroded away. Merlin, of course, doesn’t seem to mind the weather, just walks across the Isle, into the castle, and finally into the inner courtyard. When Arthur catches up, he’s holding out the Cup of Life and looking at Arthur expectantly.

“What? I’m not dying.”

With a huff, Merlin shoves the cup into his hands. “Return it to its rightful place, Arthur.”

“You mean out front-“

“Here.” The ‘you idiot’ is blatantly heard.

Scowling Arthur looks to the cup, looks to the sky, then shrugs and places it on the center of the altar surrounded by the narrow stone markers. The cup fills with water in moments, and then…

The rain stops.

Arthur looks up again and the clouds are dispersing at an unnaturally quick rate. When he looks to Merlin for an explanation, he discovers the warlock is already heading back out to the dock. Arthur runs to catch up. “What just happened?”

“The Cup of Life belongs here. I understand why you took it, and for a long while I thought the rain was just to wash Nimueh’s darkness from the Isle.” Merlin frowns. “Alator would have known.” The recrimination and chastisement are meant for himself, not aimed at Arthur. “It wasn’t until Iseldir saw it in my room that he realized why the Isle had not seen sun since her death. Since you were the one to take it, you had to restore it.”

“And you came because?”

“In case a Priestess of the Old Religion decided to attack you while you were away from the tower.”

“We really do need to find a new name. The Dark Tower is so…forbidding.”

“I’m sure it’ll come to you.”

When they return, Merlin surprises everyone by announcing that Arthur will formally undergo coronation the day of the holiday. They have plenty of people to mourn, but the crowning of a king at this time, a time of power and importance to the Old Religion, will be a significant sign to all parties. It will also, Merlin confides in him later, help anchor this new Destiny they’re building.

On the eve of Samhain, before the sun sets, Arthur crosses the bridge to the area next to the town, a large wide gathering area where all the knights, his own and Merlin’s, stand beside sorcerers and druids, all watching him avidly. He stands tall, Excalibur strapped to his hip, the Golden Trident in his hand, and Merlin standing before him, his father’s crown resting on his palms.

“Arthur Pendragon.” His eyes are glowing gold, and his voice is travelling across not just the crowd, but to the area beyond, where other people are watching, listening, hoping to catch a glimpse of this momentous event. “On your honor and on your life, do you swear to protect the lands of the Elmet?”

Elmet, Gaius had discovered, was the original name for the Perilous Lands. Arthur, head held high, answers, “I do so swear.”

“On your honor and on your life, do you swear to protect the people of this land, to bring justice and hope to all and sundry, and to not turn your will against them?”

“I do so swear.”

“On your honor and on your life, do you swear to uphold equality between knights and sorcerers, to respect the Old Religion and its tenets?”

With a swallow, he responds, “I do so swear.”

“Kneel, Arthur Pendragon.” Merlin’s eyes seem to glow brighter as Arthur bends to his knees. “On this Samhain, I hereby rescind my rights and power over these lands and peoples, and entrust their safekeeping to you.” He places the crown on Arthur’s head, and Arthur can’t help but bow in response.

Merlin pulls his hands away, but doesn’t step back. “My final duty as Prince, I grant one final boon to you, Arthur Pendragon.”

Arthur’s not sure what this is. They’d discussed the coronation, but this, this is new. From the corner of his eye he sees Mordred place a three-curved metallic plate on the ground, a triskelion, he thinks it’s called. Morgana approaches with a large egg and places it in the very center of the metal plate. It balances precariously, and Arthur glances up at Merlin, confused.

“In the days of old, the dragonlords bequeathed great kings with their most sacred gift.” Merlin steps back and holds his hand over the top of the giant egg. “She is the sign of your reign, and will be your guardian even unto death.” Merlin closes his eyes, and seems to breathe out pure magic with the word, _“Aithusa.”_

There’s a crack, a second, and then the head of a white dragon appears, followed swiftly by wet, sticky wings that break apart the rest of the shell and it falls forward on its for legs, unsteady, but eyes bright, and focused.

Arthur stares at it, then looks to Merlin, then back at it.

“She is yours,” he can hear the smile in Merlin’s voice.

“She’s ours,” Arthur whispers, and when he looks up again, Merlin’s smile is wide even as his cheeks and ears are red.

Without prompting the dragon toddles forward, and sits at his feet, stretching her neck up a moment before turning to look at the crowd. Arthur follows her gaze. The people, sorcerers and knights alike, are shocked and utterly awed. There are whispers in reverent, hushed tones. Arthur begins to rise, but stops when Merlin speaks again. “With my rights to the crown rescinded, I now grant you my first boon as the voice of magic pledged to your service.” The glow in his eyes turns blinding, and now the shocked gasps are accompanied by cries of amazement. Behind him, he feels a bright glow and hears the sound of stone flying, crashing together.

From his position he has to twist around to see what’s happening, and discovers all the stone Merlin has had gathered is gone from the edge of the moat, and has been transformed into stone for walls, for turrets, for a full castle and restored keep. At the very top of the tower, Balinor’s crest—Arthur’s new crest—appears to fly on a large flag, but now in the Pendragon colors of red and gold.

No, the Dark Tower is definitely not the appropriate name any more.

“Arise, Arthur Pendragon.” Heeding Merlin’s words, Arthur grasps the Trident and uses it to push himself up. “Long live the Fisher King.”

And then Merlin’s the one who’s kneeling, arms spread in supplication.

Lancelot is the first to cry, “Long live the king!”

The knights echo, “Long live the king!”

The sorcerers join in, “Long live the king!”

And then everyone, his entire kingdom, is proclaiming, “Long live the king!”

The sun sets upon the chanting, and Arthur knows with certainty, with these knights and Merlin at his side, this is his Destiny. His own Destiny.

He is the Fisher King.

And he has a future to build. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has been a hell of a wild ride, one that I thought would end, oh, tens of thousands of words ago. So a major, major shout-out to my betas, Never_says_die and Rogi37; the latter of whom stepped up last-minute to tackle this monster of a fic. To both of you, so much thanks!
> 
> Another thank you to the artist, enkanowen, who created the lovely art piece inspired by this story. 
> 
> I'd also like to do a final shout-out to all the cheerleaders who helped me get through this story, because for something that began as a small project, it morphed into this...well, as you see it, here. Without your support and good vibes I'd never have made it, so thank you!
> 
> And thus concludes my first (and possibly only) foray into the Merlin fandom. I hope you enjoyed the story!


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